












SUNDAY AFTERNOON STORIES 

FOR 

i^ome anO 


WRITTEN OR REVISED BY 

EDWARD E. HALE, 

AUTHOR OF “in HIS NAME,” “TEN TIMES ONE,” “THE 
MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY,” ETC. 


VOLUME I. 





BOSTON : 

OFFICE OF LEND A HAND RECORD, 

No. I Beacon Street. 


of Congress 

Two CopfES Received 

F£B 2 190 / 

C6f>>right entry 

fmsT copy 




Copyright, 1888, 

By Roberts Brothers. 

Copyright, 1901, 

By Edward E. Hale. 



F. H. GILSON COMPANY 
PRINTERS AND BOOKBINDERS 
BOSTON, U.S. A. 


V V 


,S 


PREFACE. 


I T is more than ten years since one of the great 
publishers of this country proposed to me 
the publication of this book. Other friends have 
suggested to me that a book of stories to be read 
aloud or to be read week by week in schools, 
perhaps in Sunday Schools, best of all to be read 
in that happy twilight of Sunday evening, when 
the children gather at home around father and 
mother, would be of interest, perhaps of value. 

In all that time I have been watching the 
Sunday School in my own church. I have also 
watched, sometimes with pleasure and sometimes 
with annoyance, the efforts which different authors 
have made to meet the needs of young people 
who are no longer babies. In such efforts I have 
wanted to take a share, as often when I was 
satisfied by the success of others as when I was 
annoyed by their failure. 

And from time to time I have begged or per- 
suaded one or another of my children, of my 
sisters, or of my dear friend Mrs. Whitman, the 


VI 


PKEFACE. 


Secretary of Lend a Hand, to contribute a story or 
more to the collection. I have myself furnished 
more of them than any of the other writers. I 
have assigned their subjects to each and have re- 
vised all the stories. 

It will be seen that the two volumes follow a 
regular order of Scripture narrative, — the first 
volume illustrating the life of our Saviour, and 
the second volume the order of the Old Testa- 
ment. 

We intended at first to print each author’s 
name with his story or hers. But when the col- 
lection was made, a certain curiosity to know if 
our friends could select our work has led us to 
withdraw the names from the printed edition. I 
am not quite sure sometimes as to which I am 
most responsible. I have placed opposite the 
title-page the central motto of all the Lend a 
Hand clubs, and the book which seeks to engage 
teachers and scholars, parents and children alike 
in the Saviour’s work is dedicated to them affec- 
tionately. 

In His name, 

EDWARD E. HALE. 

South Congregational Church, 

Boston, Dec. 3, 1900. 


CONTENTS 


Page 

The Garden of Zophim 1 

Into the Synagogue 13 

The Lepers 25 

All Thy Diseases 35 

Ears to Hear . 45 

Waring and Mike and Tom Flynn 59 

Only Believe 71 

Repentance 81 

Let Him Deny Himself 99 

Born Again 109 

Let Them Come 119 

Mercy, Mercy 133 

Where Shall We Go 143 

My Coat 161 

His Own 171 

How TO Fulfil It 185 

Greater than the Temple 195 

They Watched and Prayed 205 

What She Could 217 

Remember Me 229 

By Kedron’s Banks 241 

Without a Cause 257 

At Ammergau 269 

In Mexico 281 

Risen Indeed 295 

Mexico Again 305 

0 




The Garden of Zophim. 

TT all happened in a house far, far away in 
Colorado. There was not another house within 
eight or ten miles. It was the first house after 
you entered one of the wonderful parks of that 
region. 

There was no church-going for the children of 
Mr. Shirley’s family, because there was no church. 
Only the older children, indeed, remembered going 
to church, or “going to meeting,” as their grand- 
mother still liked to say. But they always came 
to Sunday sure that they should have more chances 
with father and mother and grandmother and 
Uncle Silas. They knew that something unex- 
pected would come out of their father’s great chest. 
And on Sunday afternoon there was always a long 
walk with their father and mother, all the party 
1 


2 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


joining, even to Hiram and the baby. The older 
ones would carry the baby till mamma found a place 
to rest, under the shade of Sunset Eock or in the 
edge of the Cedars ; and there their mother would 
make what was called her camp, with the little 
ones and grandmamma, while their father and uncle 
and all the older ones walked on into the woods 
or up on the hills, and perhaps would make what 
they called a new discovery. Three and four miles 
these walks extended ; and, all the week through, 
these boys and girls had something to remember 
of what they had learned in them from their uncle 
or their father. Sunday always seemed to them to 
give them a new start in being made manly or 
womanly; and there was no memory called up 
so often, in their talk or play, as those of the day 
“ when father told us of his voyage,”, or “ the day 
that we discovered the icicles.” It was with such 
service that the father and mother of these children 
supplied the lack — which they felt so much — of 
a Sunday-school and of the church service. 

In the morning they were always at home. The 
farm-work went on with so much system that it 
did not come very heavily upon any one ; and as 
early as half-past nine, all hands always came to- 
gether, — on the front veranda if it were summer 
or in the fall, and in the great hall where the Eus- 
sian stove was if the weather were too cold for this. 
The "Swiss Family Eobinson” was one of the 


PKEPARE THE WAY. 


3 


treasures of the house; and it was in memory of 
the Sunday service there, that little Silas was per- 
mitted to summon the company, as the little ship- 
wrecked boy did on their island, by crying, “ Bourn, 
bourn, bideman, bourn ! ” The bells on the necks of 
the cows were the only bells little Silas had ever 
heard, so that his imitation of the chimes of Trinity 
was not very successful; but most of the older 
boys had taken the same service in their turn, so 
that it was their pleasure to instruct him. When 
all had assembled, the little fellow would report 
to his father that all were present, and then Mr. 
Shirley would begin the regular Sunday service, — 
a service which was much more regular, indeed, in 
this little mountain valley than are many of the 
services in well-equipped churches. 

On this particular day Mr. Shirley had read the 
story of John the Baptist, as it is told in each of 
the four Gospels. He had read, from the Acts of 
the Apostles, the accounts of the time when Paul 
met John the Baptist’s people in different parts of 
Asia and Europe; and he had made the children 
understand how important to them and to us is 
the Saviour’s great lesson, that the man of action 
is more than the man of words. John the Baptist, 
who prepares the way of the Lord, is greater than 
even the greatest prophet who only proclaims it. 
Prophecy, or the duty of speaking, had been ful- 
filled before John; but with John came the real 


4 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


work for God’s kingdom ; and he is the great ex- 
ample and leader, for all time, of those who “ pre- 
pare the way.” Their uncle and their grandmother 
had fallen into very serious talk about the prepa- 
ration needed everywhere for the coming of the 
kingdom. Especially they had talked about what is 
needed on the frontier, and what every Christian man 
and woman and boy and girl can do, that the king- 
dom may come more quickly. And their home ser- 
vice had ended with their singing, “ Swing low, sweet 
chariot,” and “ The Master is coming most surely.” 

The afternoon service, as the children always 
called it, was to be a “discovery.” Uncle Silas 
had told them that he would take them to what 
he called the Garden of Zophim, because it gave 
such a perfect outlook on half the world. The 
larger boys carried the baby in turn, and left their 
mother and grandmother at the Sunset Eock. Then 
the rest climbed and walked, and turned hither and 
thither, and walked and climbed. They turned 
again and walked on a level ; they climbed high 
steps; they turned again and walked up and around, 
.and Uncle Silas would not let them look behind 
them. But all of a sudden they came out, far, far 
above where they had left their mother sitting, with 
the mountains and forests all around them on the 
nortt and on the west, but with such a prospect on 
the south and on the east as none of the children 
had ever seen before. 


PREPARE THE WAY. 


5 


It stretched away and away, their father told 
them, more than a hundred miles. In the warm 
red mist they could discern a few mountains rising 
above the plain, and the names of these “ buttes ” 
were told them. There were places where they 
could see the lines of rivers by the fogs which rose 
above them ; and as it happened, a mass of heavy 
cloud in the western horizon rose in strange broken 
battlements, all glorified by the sunlight, so that it 
seemed as if the children could make out palaces 
and towers and temples; while on the east there 
was the clear, rich blue, almost purple, of the 
heavens. 

For a little while they were all silent, and then 
each of them, even the smallest, wanted to make 
the others see wonderful things which he had 
made out himself and thought no one else had 
discovered. 

“ I call this place Zophim,” said Uncle Silas, 
“ because Zophim was a field, or garden, in Pisgah, 
and from Pisgah you could look out over half the 
Promised Land.” 

“ And see here,” said George Gray, — one of their 
cousins, who was spending the summer with them, 
— ‘‘if we had only had our church service here this 
morning, here is a seat for Aunt Fanny, and this 
deep armchair for grandmamma, and that should 
have been the pulpit, from which you should have 
read the Bible.” 


6 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


And his uncle said, Yes, George, if there was 
ever a temple with no roof but the sky, this is 
such a temple.” 

This was the first discovery of the Garden of 
Zophim to the children. 

They spent that hour there ; they sang some of 
their hymns there ; they made their uncle tell how 
he discovered it; they fell to talking again about 
what they had talked of in the morning; and it 
came five o’clock all too soon, for then they had 
to hurry down to their mother, so that every one 
might be at home before six in the evening. They 
were all eager to tell her of the story of the dis- 
covery; and the younger Silas was proud indeed 
that he had persevered and gone with them. He 
owned that he was carried across one and another 
fording-place, and was not ashamed to have ridden 
on his uncle’s shoulders ; but he had not complained 
that he was tired, and described the wonders of the 
temples in the sky in language as vivid as that of 
the best of them. After supper it was observed 
that Uncle Silas took away the bigger boys, and 
that they were gone half an hour ; but no one asked 
questions, and no one knew what they had been 
consulting about. 

But all that week there came a certain time in 
every afternoon when all the boys were away. 
And it would happen that they would come back 
to supper very late and very hungry, and Uncle 


PREPAEE THE WAY. 


7 


Silas was always with them ; and though he was 
generally very punctual, this week he would he the 
latest of all, and he would be very hungry. And 
when they sat at the late supper, — which they 
generally had to get for themselves, — although the 
family gathered with them, they never told where 
they had been. Everybody pretended there was 
no secret, but everybody knew there was a secret. 
And before breakfast in the morning the big boys 
were consulting with Uncle Silas ; and if grand- 
mamma or mamma< met either of them, there was a 
sudden hush, and a quick blush perhaps, and still 
everybody pretended there was no secret. But 
when Saturday night came, they were rather osten- 
tatiously early at supper, all of them, and each one 
expressed the hope that the next day would be 
pleasant. Their mother did not venture to say now 
that she did not know why there should be any 
doubt about it ; for, as they all knew, there had 
been no such thing heard of as a rainy Sunday in 
summer since they had lived in Colorado. But 
there was some reason which she could not fathom 
why they should be in doubt about the weather the 
next day. 

And it happened, indeed, that the sky was as 
clear as anybody could ask, and the wind as soft as 
the wind in an Indian’s heaven. Mrs. Shirley 
fancied that the boys were a little restless in their 
Sunday-morning service. Perhaps they were, when 


8 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


it began, but even the smallest boys were resolute 
enough not to tell their secret ; and it was not till 
the afternoon walk came, or the second service,” 
that the secret was disclosed. 

Then it appeared for the first time that mamma 
was not to be permitted to go to the Sunset Eock. 
She was taken in quite a different direction, out 
through the infant orchard, under the pretence of 
seeing how some grafts had taken, then through 
the gate through which the sheep were used to 
pass, and then sharp to the left, to the river-side. 
All this was an astonishment to her and to grand- 
mamma ; but when they came to the river, then the 
secret was disclosed. The work of all these after- 
noons for six days — work often running into the 
evening — had been spent in throwing a pretty 
foot-bridge across the stream, so that the baby 
could have been wheeled ’across in his little car- 
riage if it were necessary, and grandmamma and 
mamma and the girls could cross. There was no 
need of going all the way up to the ford or down to 
the rocks, but the way was as plain as the avenue to 
the house. And then it was explained to mamma 
that Uncle Silas had shown them that the only 
reason why he had to take them so far around to 
the Garden of Zophim was that the river was in the 
way ; and that, when they went first to the Sunset 
Eock, they had to make a long detour which they 
knew, through the cedars and by the Stone Needles. 


PREPAEE THE WAY. 


9 


But if they could only bridge the river here^ then, 
by short stages, which even mamma could make 
and their grandmother, the whole party could come 
up to the Garden of Zophim ; and even the morning 
service, if they chose, could be conducted there. 
The boys had been delighted when this was made 
clear to them, and they had spent their afternoons 
in good solid work, in cutting down and hauling 
the trees, in framing them under their uncle’s direc- 
tion, and in building the bridge across the chasm. 
And now mamma had consecrated the bridge on 
this first Sunday, and, with many waits that she 
might get her breath, and with much helping of 
grandmamma by a stout boy on each side of her, 
with what they called a “ carry,” when they met 
the river again, they all arrived, not very tired, and 
only breathless enough, at the Garden of Zophim, 
and turned and enjoyed the view of the Promised 
Land. 

Mary made a pile of shawls in grandmamma’s 
seat, and they had brought a cushion for their 
mother’s seat, and the rest of them lay on the 
mountain grass. And they sang the same hymns 
that they had sung that morning, and went back 
to the last Sunday’s service, and sang again, Swing 
low, sweet chariot,” and the other hymns of the 
coming of the kingdom which they had sung then. 
And this made the first of hundreds of happy gath- 
erings in the Garden of Zophim. It was not only 


10 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


on Sunday ; but whenever a birthday came, or when- 
ever there was any holiday on which they needed 
most to be together, they would come up, by what 
was always called the Mother's Bridge, to the 
Garden of Zophim. And when friends came to 
them from the East or from the Pacific, the first 
sight which the children wanted to show was the 
Garden of Zophim ; and their mother would tell, so 
proudly and so fondly, of the bridge that the chil- 
dren had built that she might share this pleasure 
which only they had known on the day of the first 
discovery. 

And this Sunday afternoon, after they had been 
singing together, Mr. Shirley said that he would 
preach the first sermon from the pulpit which 
George Gray had discovered. And a very simple 
sermon it was. It was a sermon which said that 
every boy or girl who wanted to prepare the way 
of the Lord could do something which should bring 
his coming more quickly for the place in which 
that boy or girl was. He said that some people 
really hewed down mountains, and some people 
really filled up valleys ; and then he laughed, 
though it was in a sermon, and he said : “You boys 
had to cut down trees, and to build a chasm over. 
But such a pleasure as you have had to-day, in 
having the baby and your mother and all together, 
is a real pleasure that belongs to the kingdom of 
heaven. And when we are all as happy as we 


PREPARE THE WAY. 11 

have been in the last hour, you know what is 
meant when you pray that God’s kingdom may 
come. If you can do anything to bring about an 
hour as happy as this, it is your share in preparing 
the way ; and I am sure you will all remember, 
every time that you see the bridge, that the words 
were spoken for you, in which the Saviour said 
that he who prepares the way of the Lord is 
dearer to him than he who only talks about 
preparing it.” 


As it has happened, as time has gone on since 
those early years, there stands just above Mr. Shir- 
ley’s house, in that beautiful park, what is really a 
great hotel, to which visitors come from all parts of 
the country. But the habit has never been lost 
which began in those early days ; and under that 
clear sky of a Colorado summer the Sunday ser- 
vices of all the people who assemble there — some- 
times more than a hundred at a time — are in the 
Garden of Zophim. And the people who go to 
them always cross what is called the Mother’s 
Bridge, and find their way up through the path- 
way, which is now carefully guarded and provided 
for, by which the children first went up that day. 
There has been one and another preacher there, 
and many people who could sing better than the 
children, and many a glad service in which people 


12 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


from all parts of the world have united in praise 
and prayer. And for all this cheerful homage to 
the good God in whose temple they are, the begin- 
ning was made when those boys and girls deter- 
mined to “ prepare the way.” 


Into the Synagogue. 


TT was a year after the discovery of the valley of 
Zophim — or a year lacking one day — that 
George Gray found himself one Sunday morning 
sitting in the little garden by the Albergo della 
Porta in the Italian city of Verona. He remem- 
bered the clear blue sky of that Sunday in Colo- 
rado, and spoke of it to his companion Albin 
Crowell, who sat listlessly by his side, tipping back 
in his chair against the wall, in the American 
fashion. 

“ And I wish we were there now,” said Crowell, 
ill a melancholy tone, ‘'or anywhere but in this 
rat-hole.” 

“ It is not a rat-hole,” said George, laughing, “ un- 
less you are the rat. It is a cheerful, wide-awake 
town, compared with forty places we have been in, 
which you have praised to the skies. You are 
the rat, and you are a low-spirited rat with the 
toothache.” 

“ I tell you,” said Crowell, very seriously, — "I 
tell you I wish we were both where we belong, — 
on our own side of the ocean. I know I am a 


14 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


fool to have come over here, and I think you 
are. We are Americans, and we ought to stay at 
home.” 

The truth was that the young men were both 
students in the University of Zurich, in Switzer- 
land. George was studying electrical engineering, 
and Alhin Crowell was in the second year of a 
course in metallurgy. They had not known each 
other in America, but in Zurich a warm friend- 
ship had grown up between them. The summer 
vacation had now come, and they had determined 
that, with their scanty means, their best way to 
spend it was in a journey on foot among the cities 
of Northern Italy. 

But Albin Crowell was, to-day, in low spirits. 
He had not passed his examinations well ; and 
this was his own fault, and he knew it. He had 
never been used to the regularity and monotony 
and the economies of a student’s life ; and to have 
these forced on him, with the additional discom- 
forts of the use of a foreign language and the lone- 
liness of an American among people of thirty or 
forty other nationalities, oppressed his spirits. Tliis 
was, at bottom, tlie reason why he called Verona 
a “rat-hole” in such ill-temper. 

George Gray knew him too well to undertake 
to argue with him while he was in such mood ; he 
did his best to divert his thoughts, and with a cer- 
tain success. But he had not such complete sue- 


HE WENT INTO THE SYNAGOGUE. 


15 


cess but that in an hour Albin rose and said : 
“Well, I will go into their dirty old smoking-room 
and write my letters home. I shall tell my father 
that there is no use in my staying here; and I 
shall show him that the wisest thing he can do is 
to send for me to come back to America.” 

“But you can do all that this ^evening,” said 
George, rather wistfully and with a certain hesi- 
tation easily observed. 

“ No, I shall do it now. Then I shall save one 
mail, perhaps, and perhaps I may get my re- 
lease a week the sooner.” 

“Oh, no, no,” said George, who had gathered 
courage now, “not Sunday morning ! It is just ten 
o’clock. These bells are not ringing for nothing. 
Find your hat, and come to church with me. That 
is what your father and mine, and your and my 
brothers and sisters will be doing as soon as ten 
o’clock strikes for them, and as soon as they hear 
the bells ring.” And then he told how little Silas 
called them to the Sunday service in Colorado, 
with his “ Bourn, bourn, bideman, bourn ! ” 

Albin half laughed, and as he laughed, scowled 
a little with his boy scowl. “ You are such a Puri- 
tan ! ” he said. “ What good will it do you or me 
to go into San Giorgio or San Nazaro e Celso ? I 
do not believe that you know who San Nazarus 
was, or Saint Celsus, and I do not believe you 
care. Why should we go and hear them sing 


16 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


hymns we cannot understand, and say prayers 
which they do not understand, and ring little 
bells, when the whole of it is Greek to us, or 
at worst Latin?” 

“ I did not say it would do us good,” said George, 
very gently, “ though I believe it will. I am quite 
sure that it does the world good for people to 
come together in worship. And I like — and you 
like — to show our colors. I like to have these 
fellows here, who do not seem to have any too 
much religion, know somehow that we are Jesus 
Christ’s men. I do not carry a cockle-shell on my 
hat nor a cross on my shoulder ; but for all that, 
I do not mean to be mistaken.” 

“ After all,” he said after a little pause, “ I doubt 
if that is my real motive, though it be the reason 
I give, so much as this : do you remember, ‘ He 
went into the synagogue, as his custom was.’ 
Do you know, I suppose that the worship in 
that synagogue was much more irksome to him, 
and much more disagreeable than this of San 
Nazaro can be to you and me. It must have 
grated on all his knowledge of right and all his 
wishes for them and us. Very likely a lot of those 
mean, lying Pharisees carried it on. Any way they 
could not teach him much religion. But he did 
not let that affect him. He went to the synagogue 
because he knew it was a good thing, all around, 
for them all to go. They could perhaps learn 


HE WENT INTO THE SYNAGOGUE. 17 

something. Anyway, they could acknowledge and 
worship God together ; and together is a great 
word, Albin. So come along ! ” 

It was hard to resist that sort of steadfastness ; 
so Albin relented without another word. His mel- 
ancholy letter home was postponed. The young 
men looked out, on their map of the city, their way 
to the Church of Santa Anastasia, which is one 
of the most beautiful Gothic churches in Italy, 
and started to go there. 

But they were not to see Santa Anastasia on this 
morning, although they saw it afterwards. Instead 
of going directly to the church, they took a walk as 
far as the great Eoman Arena, and on their way 
back entangled themselves in some little narrow 
streets between it and the Corso. In one of these 
they saw some families of Italian-looking people 
walking together and gesticulating very vehe- 
mently, who then disappeared into a little court- 
yard ; and as George and Albin came to the 
gateway, they saw written in large letters, on a 
sheet of note-paper, which was tacked on the gate, 
Sala d'Evangelio. 

“ Hall of the Gospel,” said Albin, who showed 
more eagerness than he had shown before; “let 
us see what that is.” And he pushed the gate 
open. 

It was a pretty sight they saw there. Forty or 
more people were gathered in a little courtyard, 
2 


18 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


which had so many shrubs and flowers in it that 
it might be called a garden. If there were any hall 
on the premises, the young men did not see it, A 
man of courteous bearing — whose hair and face 
looked like a pirate, Albin said afterwards — met 
them with a most cordial welcome, quite as if 
they had been expected, and led them to seats 
which had perhaps been brought out from the un- 
known hall. Some one else handed to them a little 
book of Italian hymns. It was clear, at once, to 
both of them that this was a much simpler religious 
service than they would have found in Santa Anas- 
tasia ; and, without a word of conference with each 
other, they took the places assigned to them, and 
remained. It was, indeed, one of the services in- 
stituted in the towns of Northern Italy by the 
missions of the Waldensian Church. This is the 
Church of Protestants who were hidden in the val- 
leys of the Alps from the eleventh century, and 
even before, downward. They were associated to- 
gether simply as followers of the Saviour, and “In 
his Name ” they now carried their simple gospel to 
the Italy which begins to see tliat men are to be 
kings and priests for themselves. 

The whole service was very simple, — so simple 
that George was reminded of his experience at his 
uncle’s house in the summer of the last year. It 
had nothing of the ceremony of the service whicli 
they would have found in Santa Anastasia, but all 


HE WENT INTO THE SYNAGOGUE. 


19 


the same were these young Americans at home 
among the serious and reverent Italians whose 
language they followed with difficulty. But they 
found they understood the preacher more readily 
tlian they had understood the German preachers 
whom they had heard in Zurich. They were so 
far familiar with the Latin language in their studies 
that the sound of the Italian fell quite naturally 
upon their ears. The leader had read more of the 
Scripture than they were used to hearing read in 
public service, and had expended a good deal of 
time in simple comment upon the verses which he 
read. After singing several hymns, and after prayer, 
he began his more formal discourse, by taking for 
his text the words in Philippians, “ He was obedi- 
ent unto death, even the death of the cross,” — 
“ Fattosi obediente infin’ alia morte, e la morte della 
croce.” 

He was utterly in earnest ; and the young men 
saw in a minute that it was a martyr who was 
speaking to them. He just alluded to one and 
another experience he had had, of one and another 
rudeness, and indeed imprisonment; but he said 
cheerfully that this was all over now, and that it 
was not of such experiences that he wished to warn 
them. He wanted to have the boys and girls who 
heard him understand what obedience to duty was- 
They might not find themselves martyrs, in tlie 
same way that Saint Stephen was a martyr. It 


20 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


might not be their duty to go to the other end of 
the earth ; but there were laws for them, and those 
laws they must obey. This simple statement he 
illustrated in various ways, and sometimes the 
young men could not follow him. But they could 
always follow him when he came back to the re- 
frain, which he repeated perhaps twenty times, — 
He was obedient unto death, even the death of 
tlie cross.” 

After this address, one of the old men said a few 
words by way of seconding the preacher, and then 
they all stood up and sang a hymn together, and 
then cordially shook hands with each other. And 
the boys noticed that no one seemed disposed to 
leave the little garden. They would have left 
themselves, but that the same man who had wel- 
comed them came again, very cordially, to shake 
liands with them, and ask them how far they had 
understood the service. George was the best lin- 
guist, and he made the attempt to reply. In a 
moment, however, the interlocutor changed the lan- 
guage to French, which George spoke more easily, 
and they understood each other without difficulty. 
He told them briefly of the position of their little 
congregation. He spoke of the drawbacks which 
were around them, and of the doubt which some of 
them had wliether they had even introduced the 
edge of the wedge, as he said, into the rock which 
they would break open. But then he just alluded 


HE WENT INTO THE SYNAGOGUE. 


21 


to the discourse which they had heard, and said 
that they did not want to disobey what seemed to 
them a divine call. 

As for George, he was by this time thoroughly 
warmed to some sense of the dignity of what they 
were doing. His mind had run back to the gather- 
ing of the hundred and twenty in the upper cham- 
ber at Jerusalem; he had been thinking of the 
meeting of men and women in the cabin of the 
“ Mayflower,” and he thought of the little gathering 
in the Garden of Zophim only the year before. He 
wondered whether, in the future, Italy and the 
Italians might not look back to just such little 
garden meetings as these as to the birth of a new 
life. The boy said as much to the Italian gentle- 
man. His French was wretched, but he was dead 
in earnest, so that through all the difficulties of 
tenses and moods he stumbled on to give him 
some sense of his meaning; and he was so earnest 
that one and another of the Italian company gath- 
ered around them, and by their nods and gestures 
showed that in his earnestness he had quickened 
them. When he spoke of the little gathering which 
he had joined in a year before, — when he just 
alluded to some of the beginnings of the States of 
the nation to which he belonged, — he was fairly 
eloquent, even with the difficulty of his language ; 
and though he did not try to paint the picture of 
the future as it had risen in his own mind, there 


22 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


was no need of his trying to, so quick were those 
who heard him to follow in the same line of 
thought. The old man who had closed the meet- 
ing took up the strain himself, almost in the spirit 
of prophecy, and he said to the others: “You see 
what it is, my brothers. We are not many, but we 
are together; and if we also will be obedient unto 
death, the promise will come to us, if we do not 
forget the assembling of ourselves together, as the 
manner of some is, or if we come together every 
Lord’s Day into the meeting-place, ^ as his custom 
was on the Sabbath day.’ ” 

The experience of old time led him to repeat 
these last words in the language of the Latin Vul- 
gate, as all of them had heard them read once and 
again in the offices of the Church. The language 
fell quick upon Albin’s ear, and he and George 
smiled as they remembered what text it was which 
had sent them into this little “synagogue” that 
morning. And so they bade their friends good-by, 
and in this world, I suppose, that company will 
never meet with those young fellows again. But 
one thing followed which will make the young 
men always remember that meeting; for as they 
turned to walk home, Albin, who was at first very 
silent, said at last, with a sort of effort, to his 
companion, — 

“ George, I believe that it was the hand of God 
that led us there. Do you know, I never saw before 


HE WENT INTO THE SYNAGOGUE. 


23 


how great a fool I am, and your friend without a 
name has taught me that lesson. 

“ George, my father used to say that he sent me 
to Zurich to take the nonsense out of me. I do not 
think Zurich has taught me that lesson ; but, as I 
live, Verona has. 

“ I do not much know what he said when he 
talked about obedience unto death, but I know 
what the Spirit said to me while he was talking. 

“After all, George, I am not in Zurich, and I am 
not in Verona to do what pleases me, or what I 
think a pretty thing to do ; I am here to obey the 
will of the good God. It has pleased the good God 
to give me the best father who ever lived, and that 
best 'father who ever lived has sent me to Zurich, 
and has bidden me study in Zurich as well as I 
can, that I may learn how to make iron and steel, 
how to smelt copper and make bronze. I do not 
care much about the bronze nor the steel, but I do 
care a good deal about my father, and I do not 
choose to displease him. 

“I do not know why I have fooled away the 
year as I have done. I cannot see now why I did 
not see in the beginning what this man shows me 
this morning. But, George, as I live, I will go back 
to Zurich, and obey the last letter, my father sent 
me. He told me in that letter to hold to this thing 
for twelve months, and see what would come of it. 
1 may not be a good mining engineer, but I can be 


24 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


an obedient son; and, George, I will be obedient 
as ‘ He was obedient unto death, even the death of 
the cross.’ ” 

And so it was that the little congregation at 
Verona started on a new life of Christian endeavor, 
because those two travelling youngsters recollected 
that their Saviour went into the synagogue, “as 
his custom was.” And so it happened that Albin 
Crowell went home fifteen months after to his 
father, able to enter on the work of the profession 
which he had come to learn, and able to do his own 
share in “ preparing the way of the Lord.” 


The Lepers. 


Y OU would say, perhaps, that no one would 
write a story about lepers, so painful and so 
loathsome is their disease ; but here you would be 
quite wrong. 

The teacher of the class or of the school has 
described to you, perhaps, the disease, and shown 
you why the dread of it was so general. 

I suppose that the very fact that the Saviour met 
so many lepers and was so kind to them, so that 
perhaps there are more records of his cures of 
leprosy than of any other disease, has thrown 
around this disorder a certain mysterious interest 
among those who try to follow him. 

This is certain, — that as his followers have 
taken up his work, this terrible disease has yielded 
to him and to them. In Christian countries it is 
almost unknown, and its diminution is directly due 
to the work of his Church and those whom he has 
sent forth. The disease is now so little known that 
it may be called a curiosity in medical experience. 
There are a few cases in Norway ; there are a few 
in Louisiana, in the United States; there are a 


26 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


few scattered cases in the countries of continental 
Europe. 

In the Sandwich Islands, one small island, Molo- 
kai, is devoted to be a home for the lepers, who are 
removed there from the other islands of the group. 
The disease in those islands is due to the presence 
of the Chinese emigrants there ; that is to say, they 
bring it to a country under Christian rule from 
a nation which does not understand how Jesus 
Christ deals with men’s diseases and how he bids 
his Church deal with them. 

It seems, also, that the disease is less terrible 
than it was before such careful treatment was re- 
sorted to. Many scientific men believe that it is 
not contagious in its present forms, and the impres- 
sion gains ground that it yields to the proper med- 
ical treatment; on this point, however, there is 
doubt. 

As early as the year 583, a council of the church 
at Lyons ordered that in each city any leprous 
people should be fared and cared for by the bishop 
at the expense of the church, so that they should 
not be vagabonds. At a later period the religious 
order of Saint Lazarus devoted itself specially to 
the relief of such sufferers. Under their arrange- 
ments every leprous person has a little garden of 
his own, and every necessity of life is provided for 
him. De Maistre, a French author a good deal 
celebrated at the beginning of this century, de- 


THE LEPROSY DEPARTED. 


27 


scribes such a house and garden as he found it near 
Aosta, in the South of France. The leper who lives 
there says to a visitor: “I cultivate some flowers 
which may please you ; some of them are rare. I 
have found the seeds of all the Alpine wild-flowers, 
and I have tried to improve them by cultivation.” 
And then the poor fellow goes on : “ If any of my 
flowers please you, do not be afraid to take them. 
I like to take care of them, to water them, and to 
see them ; but I never touch them, for fear of losing 
the pleasure of giving them away.” And then he 
says : “ Those who bring my food from the hospital 
are not afraid to take my flowers. When children 
come from the town, I go back into my tower that 
I need not frighten them. They know they may 
help themselves to my flowers, and they do so. 
When they go away, they look up to me and smile 
on me and wish me good-day, and then I feel 
something like happiness.” 

This man, if De Maistre’s story is true, had had a 
sister who lived with him five years. She also was 
afflicted with the same disease ; and the pathos of 
the story comes in the tragedy of her death when 
they had lived together happily for five years.^ 

In the “Overland Monthly” for the year 1873, 
will be found an interesting account of a visit to 
the island of Molokai, where the Government of the 

^ The Leper of Aosta, by Count Joseph de Maistre. There are 
at least two English translations. 


28 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


Sandwich Islands maintained the establishment for 
the care of lepers which has been spoken of. 

Mr. George W. Cable has had an opportunity to 
see the arrangements made in the State of Louis- 
iana for the care of the lepers who have appeared 
there within tlie last two generations. In his pa- 
thetic story, called “ Jean Poquelin,” the older of two 
brothers gives up his whole life to the tender care of 
a younger brother who has been smitten with lep- 
rosy. The people in the neighborhood, thoughtless 
and therefore cruel, do not understand why he keeps 
himself apart from them and their affairs. The 
children run after him, and hoot at him in the 
streets, nickname him, and pelt him as cruel 
boys might persecute a wretched cur. At the last, 
in one wild outbreak of their mad or savage hatred 
for him, they make a march on the little out-of-the- 
way home which he has made for himself and his 
brotlier, and arrive just in time to see the funeral 
of the poor outcast for whom he has sacrificed his 
life. 

If any reader of these lines has not read “ Ben 
Hur,” by General Wallace, he will thank us for call- 
ing his attention to it. It is a very careful study 
of the period of the Saviour’s life, and makes it so 
real that one reads the Gospels afterward with a new 
understanding of the movement of the story, and 
with a more vivid imagination as to the scenery 
and other circumstances. In this story the author 


THE LEPROSY DEPARTED. 


29 


brings in two of those whom the Saviour cures, 
and they are not of the ungrateful lepers. 

I can hardly think that this book will come into 
any Sunday-school where “ Ben Hur ” is not in the 
library. But no one will be sorry to read the fol- 
lowing passages again : — 

^ Unclean, unclean ! * 

“ Ah, the pang the effort to acquit herself of that 
duty cost the mother ! Not all the selfishness of joy 
over the prospect could keep her blind to the conse- 
quences of release, now that it was at hand. The old 
happy life could never be again. If she went near the 
house called home, it would be to stop at the gate and 
cry, ‘ Unclean, unclean ! ’ She must go about with the 
yearnings of love alive in her breast strong as ever, and 
more sensitive even, because return in kind could not 
be. The boy of whom she had so constantly thought, 
and with all sweet promises such as mothers find their 
purest delight in, must, at meeting her, stand afar off. 
If he held out his hands to her, and called, ‘ Mother, 
mother,’ for very love of him she must answer, ‘ Un- 
clean, unclean ! ' And this other child, before whom, 
in want of other covering, she was spreading her long 
tangled locks, bleached unnaturally white, — ah ! that 
she was she must continue, sole partner of her blasted 
life. Yet, 0 reader, the brave woman accepted the lot, 
and took up the cry which had been its sign immemo- 
rially, and which thenceforward was to be her salutation 
without change, — ‘ Unclean, unclean ! ’ 


30 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


“ The tribune heard it with a tremor, but kept his 
place. 

“ ‘ Who are you 'I ’ he asked. 

‘ Two women dying of hunger and thirst. Yet/ — 
the mother did not falter — ‘ come not near us, nor 
touch the floor or the wall. Unclean, unclean ! ’ 

When afterwards they meet the Saviour, — 

“ This was the colloquy that ensued : 

‘ 0, Master, Master ! Thou seest our need ; thou 
canst make us clean. Have mercy upon us, — mercy ! ’ 

“ ‘ Believest thou that I am able to do this ? ’ he 
asked. 

“ ‘ Thou art he of whom the prophets spake, — thou 
art the Messiah ! ’ she replied. 

“ His eyes grew radiant, his manner confident. 

“ ‘Woman,’ he said, ‘great is thy faith ; be it unto 
thee even as thou wilt.’ 

“ He lingered an instant after, apparently unconscious 
of the presence of the throng, — an instant, — then he 
rode away. 

“Immediately both the hosts — that from the city 
and that from Bethphage — closed around him with 
their joyous demonstrations, with hosannas and waving 
of palms ; and so he passed from the lepers forever. 
Covering her head, the elder hastened to Tirzah, and 
folded her in her arms, crying, ‘ Daughter, look up ! I 
have his promise ; he is indeed the Messiah. We are 
saved — saved ! ’ And the two remained kneeling 
wl.ile the procession, slowly going, disappeared over the 


THE LEPROSY DEPARTED. 


31 


mount. When the noise of its singing afar was a sound 
scarcely heard, the miracle began.” 

Nathaniel P. Willis in his youth took the same 
story for one of his best poems. In this poem is 
this sad song of the leper : — 

“ ‘ Depart, depart, 0 child 
_Of Israel, from the temple of thy God ! 

For he has smote thee with his chastening rod ; 

And to the desert- wild. 

From all thou lov’st, away thy feet must flee, 

That from thy plague his people may be free. 

“ ‘ Depart ! and come not near 
The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; 

Nor set thy foot a human threshold o’er ; 

And stay thou not to hear 
Voices that call thee in the way; and fly 
From all who in the wilderness pass by. 

“ ‘ Wet not thy burning lip 
In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; 

Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide ; 

Nor kneel thee down to dip 
The water where the pilgrim bends to drink 
By desert well or river’s grassy brink. 

“ ‘ And pass thou not between 
The weary traveller and the cooling breeze ; 

And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees 
Where human tracks are seen ; 

Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, 

Nor pluck the standing corn or yellow grain. 


32 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


“ ‘ And now depart ! and when 
Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, 

Lift lip thy prayer beseechingly to him 
Who, from the tribes of men, 

Selected thee to feel his chastening rod : 

Depart, 0 leper ! and forget not God ! ’ 

“ And he went forth — alone ! not one of all 
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
Was woven in the fibres of the heart 
Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
Comfort imto him. Yea, he went bis way, 

Sick, and heart-broken, and alone, — to die! 

For God had cursed the leper 1 ” 

The existence of the disease in Louisiana gives 
IVIr. Cable the opportunity for his interesting story. 
The story ends with the lonely funeral which closes 
the tragedy. 

“ There was a profound hush as the vehicle came 
creaking through the gate; but when it turned away 
from them toward the forest, those in front started sud- 
denly. There was a backward rush ; then all stood still 
again, staring one way ; for there, behind the bier, with 
eyes cast down, and labored step, walked the living re- 
mains — all that was left — of little Jacques Poquelin, 
the long-hidden brother, — a leper white as snow. 

“ Dumb with horror, the cringing crowd gazed upon 
the walking death. They watched, in silent awe, the 
slow cortege creep down the long road and lessen on 
the view, until by and by it stopped where a wild. 


THE LEPROSY DEPARTED. 


33 


unfrequented path branched off into the undergrowth 
toward the rear of the ancient city. 

‘ They are going to the Terre aux Lepreux,’ said one 
in the crowd. The rest watched them in silence.' 

“ The little bull was set free. The mute, with the 
strength of an ape, lifted the long box to his shoulder. 
For a moment more the mute and the leper stood in 
sight, while the former adjusted his heavy burden. 
Then, without one backward glance upon the unkind hu- 
man -world, turning their faces toward the ridge in the 
depths of the swamp known as the ‘ Lepers’ Land,’ they 
stepped into the jungle, disappeared, and were never 
seen again.” 


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All Thy Diseases. 



S George Gray and Albin Crowell were return- 


ing to their own country after two years’ 
study at Zurich, Sunday came around on the Eed 
Star steamer “ Ehynland,” in which they had taken 
passage from Antwerp. Dr. Zimmermann of the 
Lutheran Church had conducted service in the 
cahin. The passengers had lingered after the reg- 
ular service to sing hymns around the piano. And 
now these young men with a group of a dozen 
others — some friends and some strangers to them 
— were sitting on deck on the shady side of the 
smoke-stack. 

They had talked over the sermon, they had dis- 
cussed the singing, and had asked how much the 
waiters and sailors who had attended the service 
had cared for or understood it. And then a man 
named Turner, who had never said much to any- 
body before, got up and began walking across the 
deck, but so that they could hear all he said. 

Ministers never preach as I should preach,” he 
said ; and his immediate friends laughed when he 
said it. “ I mean,” said he, “ that I should not go 
for first principles as much as they do. I should 


36 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


undertake to tell results. ITow, it is all right what 
this man says about the possible power of the 
Church, and the Church standing in Christ’s place ; 
and I do not mean to disapprove of his doctrine. 
But I say that those waiters and forecastle men 
would have been more interested if he had told 
them a story, and I believe I could have told them 
a story that they would not have gone to sleep 
under.” 

Every one said that it would be a good chance 
for him to tell the story now. 

“ No,” he said, “ I am not going to tell the story 
now. I only give you what has been running 
through my mind. Here am I, as well a man as 
there is on this boat. I can walk this deck as long 
as any of you can. And yet, five months and eleven 
days ago, I was lying on my back on a stretcher in 
the streets of Amiens, and I was lugged along by 
four fellows who did not understand a word I said, 
any more than I could understand a w^ord they said. 
They were laying some street rails in Amiens, and 
the men who were lugging the iron along managed 
to swing it against me just as I turned the corner, 
knocked me down, fell upon me with three or four 
hundred pounds of rail, and broke this leg — there 
— just three inches above the ankle. I tell you, 
fellows, if you do not know what pain is, you let 
some fellow knock you down with four hundred 
pounds of iron upon you. Eeally, the end of the 


WHO HEALETH ALL THY DISEASES. 37 

bone stuck through the flesh, and when they got my 
trousers off the whole thing was running blood. 

Now, I am not going to tell the story. But, as 
I say, how is it that I am here, walking backwards 
and forwards across this deck ? It is that those 
fellows carried me to their hospital. It is that 
some sisters of charity took care of me. It is that 
a foundation which from the beginning to the end 
was ordered by Jesus Christ, fed and nursed me. 
It is that some men who, I suppose, would have 
been Gauls clothed in furs and killing wild ele- 
phants except, for Jesus Christ, were there acting as 
physicians and surgeons. They would not have my 
leg cut off ; they were patient with me when I was 
crazy with pain ; they had this thing and that 
thing and another thing all ready for me. And the 
upshot of it is that I am as well as I ever was and 
am here. It is thanks to the Christian religion 
that I am here. It is thanks to a law that is, after 
all, a Christian law, that I am here. And all that 
he said to-day, in his college way, about the Church 
standing in the place of Jesus Christ to-day, is il- 
lustrated in the fact that I can stand here and talk 
to you men about it now. If I had been one of 
those Gauls, and had been caught by a stone rolling 
down the side of the mountain, — for I do not sup- 
pose that they had horse-railroads in that time, — I 
should have just died and rotted there, and my 
bon3S would have been there now. 


38 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


“ ‘ Greater things than these shall ye do.’ That 
is the text which I have made a golden text ever 
since I read it one day from my New Testament, as 
I lay there on my bed in Amiens. I know what he 
did, going up and down there in Galilee ; but I tell 
you, fellows, that in that town of Amiens every 
year he is working more miracles — if miracle 
mean the healing of the flesh by the power of the 
soul and the spirit, as I suppose it does — than 
are written in all the four Gospels. And if I had 
been the preacher to-day, that is very much what I 
should have said to the forecastle men and the 
waiters.” 

This was not a bad little sermon for Mr. Turner ; 
and neither George nor Albin was surprised that 
he was started into this unexpected eloquence, were 
it from mere gratitude that he was strong and well. 
As the group broke up, and as the members of it 
began to take their constitutional walks up and 
down the deck before luncheon, Albin said as much 
to George, — 

“ I know I should have preached very much the 
same sermon from my own experience, and I would 
have told the story of Verona.” 

The young man who walked with them, whose 
name was Blodgett, asked him what* he meant, and 
Albin very frankly told him. He told him that 
the circumstances of the little service at Verona 
had impressed his duty on him in such a fashion 


WHO HEALETH ALL THY DISEASES. 


39 


that his life for the last year had been changed. 
Blodgett thanked him for being willing to speak so 
seriously to one who was comparatively a stranger, 
and said, — 

“ My story would not have been on broken bones, 
and I am not sure that I should have dared to tell 
it to all those fellows just now ; but I do not mind 
telling you. I am a doctor. I was an assistant at 
Bloomiugdale, above New York, before I came over 
here, and what I tell you I saw. 

I had been sent for professionally, that I might 
take the measure of a lady, — one of your over- 
trained and overstrained women, who has studied too 
much and, as you will see, has done too little. She 
was well advanced in what we call melancholia, 
— horribly despondent. Her friends were afraid of 
suicide, and did their best, as people will, to re- 
move from her room anything by which they 
thought she could kill herself. That shows how 
little they knew of the disease, or of the cun- 
ning of the insane. I was on a visit at the house, 
under some pretence or other, that I might give 
some advice, or that my chiefs might give some ad- 
vice, as to the best place and manner of her treat- 
ment as an insane person. I had been there four 
or five days when this happened which I tell you. 

There came along, one Saturday night, a great, 
brown, hulking cub of a boy, fifteen years old, — 
one of those boys who is growing an inch a week. 


40 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


and, as Dr. Holmes says, can eat hot gingerbread at 
any period of the day or night without injuring his 
digestion. This boy had been camping out with 
some friends, — they must have been good fellows, 
all of them, judging from the account he gave of 
himself. It happened, in the crowd of the evening 
meal, that he sat at the table next to this melan- 
choly lady, and it happened that in the flow of the 
conversation among the other groups she spoke to 
him. I do not know what she said, and he never 
could tell me, but it was something very low-toned 
and desperate, making out this world to be a hell, 
and spoken as only a person in utter despair can 
speak. Xo matter what she said ; it was as black 
as it could be. 

“ What does this boy do, but turn square on her, 
in his simple camping-out way, and preach to her a 
very simple Gospel ! I never could make him tell 
me exactly what he said. He said that she had no 
right to say that her yoke was hard or her burden 
was heavy. He said that if she would only wear 
her yoke the right way, it was easy, and her burden 
was light. He said she had no right to be brood- 
ing over her sins, — that the Saviour told her to re- 
pent, and he would take care of her sins for her ; 
only she was to do better by and by. He told her 
pretty squarely that she was thinking of herself, 
and that the Saviour told her to forget herself, 
and to think of other people and of the good God. 


WHO HEALETH ALL THY DISEASES. 


41 


That was pretty much the simple Gospel of the 
woods and of the New Testament, which my friend 
Stratton preached to that poor soul. Do you think, 
she was just as much astonished as if the heavens 
had opened, and somebody had said this thing to 
her from the sky. It was a real case of ‘ Out of 
the mouth of babes and sucklings is perfected 
praise.’ I might have said this to her, or your 
Dr. Zimmermann might have said it to her, and 
she would only have groaned, and told some awful 
story of despair. But to have this rugged, big- 
handed, brown-faced boy say it to her, was a dif- 
ferent thing. They got up from the table ; they 
walked the piazza together for half an hour, and 
then walked down the avenue half an hour more ; 
and the next morning that woman was a converted 
woman. 

“ The next morning she was engaging herself in 
the good-natured hospitalities of the household ; and 
before that day was over, she was down in the vil- 
lage reading to some blind woman, or some such 
thing as that. She told me that she put into the 
fire that day half-a-dozen books that she thought 
had hurt her, and came to the square resolution 
that she would read nothing in a theological line, 
except the Book of Proverbs and the four Gospels. 
In a word, and speaking very simply, the poor soul 
that morning took hold of the Saviour’s hand, de- 
termined to follow him. And she followed him 


42 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


into any highway and byway of the town, where 
she thought he had occasion to go. She managed 
to forget herself in her eagerness for some Canadian 
children she got hold of down in the factory village. 
I was sent about my business before the week was 
out ; and when I heard from her, which was the day 
before I sailed for Europe, she was as cheerful and 
well and brave as any person on this ship is. 

“ Now you may say what you choose about hy- 
giene and physiology. You are both younger than 
I am, and I tell you that there is that in the pres- 
ent power of God, or in what the Bible calls the 
work of grace of the Holy Spirit, which is not 
written down in any cyclopaedia of medicine; and 
if you ever have the experience of dealing with 
people whose brains are all gone wrong, you 
will find that there are spiritual powers given 
to you as Christian men, by which you can work 
such miracles as I have been describing. That 
woman is doing her Master’s work to-day, and is 
looking cheerfully and hopefully on the world 
around her, because the Saviour of mankind gave 
that boy the talisman by which he worked that 
cure.” 

At lunch afterwards, in the saloon of the steamer, 
the young men sat opposite a gentleman named 
Thacher, whose acquaintance they had made on the 
ship. In his turn he undertook to tell them how he 
would have preached Dr. Zimmermann’s sermon. 


WHO HEALETH ALL THY DISEASES. 43 

“I would just have told the story of the man 
who is at the head of my bleachery. Well, he 
is a man whom all the boys in the mill love 
and stand by. I am as sure to-day that he has a 
company of fifteen or twenty of them at his house 
or in his garden for him to teach them or amuse 
them, as I am that I am in this ship. There is 
nothing they will not do for him, or indeed that 
he will not do for them. 

“ Now, that man — I tell you because you do not 
know him, and never will — came to me the month 
after he left the House of Correction. He was all 
broken up, and desperate. He had no character 
and no friends ; and he says he deserved none. He 
had tried for work, and could not get it. He hated 
himself ; he hated life ; he said to me once that if 
he had not been a coward, he would have jumped 
into the river, and ended it. 

“Well, the night before Christmas, he was in 
New Altona, tramping through the streets, cold 
and hungry. He saw a church open, and he went 
in, — not to pray, and not to listen, but to be warm. 
He found a seat, in a rather dark place he said. 
He did not mind the service much, and went to 
sleep. All of a sudden he waked up, and started, 
just in time to hear a clear voice chanting, — 


‘ Neither do I condemn thee, 
Go and sin no more.’ 


44 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


" Mr. Gray, I hear people say bitter things about 
choir-singing; but when I have heard White tell 
this story, I always want to find the woman that 
sang this solo, and tell her what followed. 

“ White started, and he says his life was changed 
from that moment. If the Saviour of men did not 
condemn him, why should he condemn himself? If 
God Almighty sent him the message of forgiveness, 
why should he care if a boarding-house woman 
turned him out doors because he was a prison bird ? 

''Simply, he said, he turned over a new leaf 
' Go and sin no more that was his part. That part 
he would try to play. He started on foot the next 
day. On Christmas Day he walked thirty miles or 
more. He offered himself to me, to work in my 
place the next morning. Luckily for him a man 
we called a dumper had gone off drunk the night 
before; we wanted a new dumper right off. I 
asked no questions, and I engaged this White. He 
is now one of my nearest friends. What I tell you 
happened twenty years ago. He had hard times, 
wretched times ; but he says he never ate his heart 
out again. ' Neither do I condemn thee, — go and 
sin no more.’ That holds by him. God Almighty 
has forgiven him. That he remembers ; and when 
I saw him last he was in the church dressing it for 
Christmas. He had made those boys of his cut 
out the motto which he was tacking upon the 
wall, — 'He shall save my peo}^^ from, their sins' ” 


Ears to Hear. 


T T AEEY had never been at Ganister before; and 
as he and his father jumped down from the 
train, he did not like the looks of it very much. 

There was only a little shed for a station. Then 
there w^as the signal-tower, and beyoud that two 
houses. That was all he could see. One of these 
houses was quite small and had no windows. It 
was close to the track, and Harry knew that it was 
to keep the trackmen’s tools and the hand-car in. 
The other house was painted gray, and had smoke 
coming out of the chimney. Harry was going to 
ask his father if that was where they were to live, 
when a tall man hurried out with a trunk on his 
shoulder. He ran through the snow to Harry’s 
father, and thrust a large key into his hand. 

“ Here ’s the key, Fetrow,” he said. “ Sorry I 
can’t stay to help you get settled, but I must re- 
export at Sackville to-night.” Then he ran along to 
the baggage-car, and threw his trunk in at the door 
just as the train started. As he jumped on the 
platform of the car, he waved his hand back at 
them. The train puffed along the embankment, 


46 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


turned into a cutting, and was lost to sight ; but 
Harry heard the whistle twice after it was out 
of sight. 

Harry and his father were the only people who 
had got out of the cars at Ganister, but there were 
six or eight men who had come up to meet them. 

Harry’s father, Mr. Fetrow, had just been made 
foreman of that part of the railroad, and the old 
foreman, whom they had met coming out of his 
house, had been ordered away. It was quite a 
promotion for Fetrow. He had been only a com- 
mon track-hand; but now he had been promoted 
to be foreman at Ganister, and he had come up 
with his little son and most of the trunks and 
boxes. They were going to settle as well as they 
could, and next day Mrs. Fetrow was coming up 
with the baby. 

The men on the platform were the track-hands 
who were going to work under Fetrow. Some of 
them began to pick up the trunks ; but one of them 
came up to Fetrow, as the train pulled out. 

“ Mr. Fetrow,” said he, “ my name ’s Archer. 
I ’ve been boarding with Mr. Smith at the house 
yonder, and I have n’t moved my things out yet ; 
but we have taken all the furniture out of the car 
that you sent up, and w^e Ve put it in the house in 
some shape. The boys will bring in your trunks 
now, and perhaps you can tell us how to fix 
things.” 


LET HIM HEAR ! 


47 


“Well, Archer,” said Mr. Fetrow, “you’d bet- 
ter stay with us till to-morrow, and then, if my 
woman likes the idea, perhaps you can keep on 
boarding at the house. She ’s used to keeping 
boarders. This is my boy Harry. He ’s only ten, 
though he is so tall.” 

Harry put up his hand to shake Archer’s, and 
Archer smiled down at him. He liked Archer’s 
looks, for he had a pleasant face and curly yellow 
hair. 

They walked together to the house, and went 
into the kitchen. Harry saw that the furniture 
was the same they had had at home, but the room 
was a good deal larger. The stove was new too ; 
but there was a good fire in it, and Harry pulled 
off his coat and warmed his hands, for it was grow- 
ing chilly out of doors. 

Harry and his father had been living nearly a 
hundred miles away, down in the valley where 
almost all the snow had melted ; but here in the 
mountains it hardly seemed to have melted at all. 
The men were taking the trunks upstairs, and 
making a great noise and bumping as they went. 
Harry asked if he might go too. 

“Is there a little room up there that the boy 
could have ? ” said Fetrow. 

“ Yes,” replied Archer. “ I had the little bed- 
stead put in the room over the front door ; but I 
have n’t any clothes for the bed.” 


48 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


“ That ’s all right. We have them in one of the 
trunks. Do you remember which trunk the sheets 
and blankets are in, Harry ? ” Harry thought they 
were in the big wooden chest ; so they all went up- 
stairs, after Archer had lighted a candle, for it was 
growing dark. 

Harry ran up into the little room, and first of 
all he looked out of the window. He could see, 
through the twilight, the track and the tool-house 
and the signal-tower with its big red light, and 
beyond, the embankment, curving away into the 
darkness. He noticed,' too, what he had not seen 
when he was out of doors, that there was a culvert 
in the embankment and quite a brook running 
through it. The brook was very black against the 
white snow. He could not see very plainly, for it 
was quite dark, and besides it was beginning to rain ; 
but he could make out that the culvert was arched 
and made quite a pretty bridge across the stream. 

But his father was calling him to lielp unpack 
the wooden chest, for Archer had gone down to 
look after the supper; so he pulled out pillows 
and pillow-cases and sheets and blankets, and 
helped to make his own and his father’s bed. 
Before they went down to supper, he went back 
to his own room, and looked through the window ; 
but it was so dark, and the rain beat so against 
the pane, that he could only see the black stream 
against the white snow. 


LET HIM HEAR ! 


49 


So he followed his father down to supper. It 
turned out that Archer was quite a good cook. 
They had fried ham and baked potatoes, with some 
hot biscuit, which Harry thought were better than 
those his mother made, for they had a little sugar 
in them. Then they had brought up a pot of straw- 
berry jam, which Archer seemed to like very much. 
As they ate their supper, the men talked and Harry 
listened. 

Do you know. Archer, they Ve been trying to 
frighten me about this section,” said Fetrow. 

“ Why, what ’s the matter with it ? ” 

“ Oh, they had great stories of slides and wash- 
outs and wreck.” 

“Well, Mr. Fetrow, I suppose there are more ac- 
cidents here than down in the valley, but we don’t 
have any slides now at all to speak of. I can’t re- 
call a stone tumbling on the track for a year 
or more, and I don’t think there are very many 
wrecks. As for wash-outs, there would have 
been some bad ones last spring during the 
freshets, if Smith hadn’t made us keep such a 
sharp lookout.” 

“ Then we ’ll have to keep that up,” said Fet- 
row. “What’s the matter, — are the culverts too 
small ? ” 

“Well, not precisely that. If it was only water 
that came down, it would be all right ; but when 
these little streams rise, they fetch down logs and 
4 


50 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


trees from tlie mountains, and they catch in the 
culverts, and fill them up pretty nigh solid.” 

“ Then, I suppose, the water backs up, and if it 
gets running over the track, you’re done for.” 

“That’s it,” said Archer; “and Smith, he was 
always after the culverts, especially if there was 
any danger of a freshet. I ’ve seen him, up to his 
waist in water, working away with an axe, and 
when the jam broke, nearly getting carried through 
the culvert ; and that was right out here, just be- 
yond the tower.” 

Harry had stopped eating his jam, and was lis- 
tening with all his ears ; he had never seen his 
father up to his waist in water. But just then 
there was a rap at the door, and a young man 
hurried in. He was the operator from the 
tower. 

“Sorry to interrupt you,” he said, “but I’ve 
just received this.” 

This is the telegram which he handed to 
Betrow : — 

J. F., — Ganister, — There is a small wash-out at Six- 
Mile Dump. Please report at ouce with all your force 
to F. J. C. at that point. Bring shovels. You can use 
the north track with your hand-car. 

P. M. S. 

Fetrow handed the message over to Archer. 
“ P. M. S. is Mr. Sargent, of course,” said Fetrow. 


LET HIM hear! 


51 


“ I forget who F. J. C. is, but you can tell me on the 
way down. Will you call the men ? I *11 get out 
the hand-car.’* Then to the operator; “Just tell 
P. M. S. that I ’ll have the men down there in an 
hour. Can we get down on the hand-car as quick 
as that, Archer ? ” 

“ Yes ; it ’s not far beyond the end of your 
division.” 

The men were pulling on their boots and light- 
ing their lanterns. 

“ I don’t like this leaving my own division. 
Who knows what will happen while we are gone ? ’* 
said Fetrow. 

“ Oh,” said Archer, “ if anything happens, Harry 
will let us know.” 

Harry had been watching them a little sadly, 
but he brightened up at this. “Shall I telegraph 
down to you ? ” 

“ Ho ; you can’t do that, for the operator will go 
away at eight or nine,” said Archer. 

“ Ho,” said his father, as he stooped to kiss him ; 
“ if anything happens, you ’ll have to walk.” 

Harry shut the door after them, and then watched 
tliem from the window. Archer’s light disappeared 
as he ran down the hill to where the rest lived. 
Fetrow’s light went to the tool-house, and then 
stood still on the ground, throwing strange shadows, 
as Fetrow opened the tool-house and got out the 
hand-cars and the shovels. Then Archer’s light 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


52 

came back with six other lights, and they all started 
off down toward the east. 

It was about seven o’clock, but Harry was very 
sleepy ; so he blew out the lamp, took his candle, 
and went up to bed. There w^ere no curtains in 
his windows yet; so as he lay in bed he could see 
the great red eye of the signal-tower. At first he 
felt very lonely. He had never been alone in an 
empty house before, and the wind blew, and the 
rain beat, and the house creaked now and then in a 
way he did not like ; but the big red eye was com- 
pany for him, and he dozed off quite comfortably. 
But just as he was dropping off, he woke up with a 
jerk. 

A train had stopped at the station. He sat up 
in bed, and saw tlie red light go out, and then the 
light in the tower go out. Then some one came out 
of the tower, and ran across the w^et shining plat- 
form and boarded the train. Then there was a clat- 
ter as the train went on, and everything was black. 

It was so black that Harry could not even make 
out the white snow. But he shut his eyes tight so 
as not to see tfie blackness, and then he found he 
could see quite plainly his father and mother, just 
as they looked sitting together at home, with the 
baby on his mother’s knee ; and little by little he 
lieard less of the wind and the rain and the strange 
creaks, till he heard nothing at all and saw nothing 
^it all, for he was asjeep. 


LET HIM hear! 


53 


Tt was a long time before he woke. Then he 
thought first he was dreaming of Niagara Falls; 
for really he thought he could see it just as it is in 
the geography, and he heard it, — above the howl- 
ing of the wind and the splashing of the rain and 
the strange creaks of the house, he heard a great 
rusliin^ of water. 

He rubbed his eyes, and then he did not see the 
Falls any more ; but still he heard this great rush- 
ing of water. 

He sat up in bed, but it was all black again. 
Then he lay down, and thought it must be the wind 
and rain. But no, he conld hear them and the 
rushing too. At first he tried to go to sleep ; but 
the more he tried the more wakeful he grew. 

“ I can’t lielp it,” he said, — “I can’t stop the rush- 
ing; so wliy can’t I go to sleep ?” 

But as he lay, lie began to think of what Archer 
had said about the culverts and the freshets, and 
Mr. Smith up to liis waist in water. 

'' If they are having a freshet on the other sec- 
tion, why should they not liave one here ? But,” 
he argued with himself, “ what can I do ? The 
operator has gone, and I can’t telegraph. If it 
takes father an hour to go to Six-Mile Dump on 
his hand-car, how long will it take me ? What can 
I do ? ” 

And still he could hear that rushing of water. 
Then he answered himself : Certainly you can’t 


54 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


do anything while you are lying here. Get 
up ! 

So he got up and lighted his candle. Then he 
dressed himself, and put on his coat and cap and 
boots. 

Downstairs he found that there was one lantern, 
left standing in the corner. He lighted it, and 
leaving his candle on the window-seat he started 
out with the lantern into the night. 

The rushing of the water was coming from the 
culvert. The rain had been melting the snow up 
in the mountain, and instead of the brook he had 
seen last night, there was a large stream rushing 
down from the culvert. But that was not all. He 
walked up the track till he was just over the cul- 
vert, and turned his lantern so that it shone down. 
There was a real lake of water on this side, and 
just against the culvert was a great tree which had 
floated against it, branches and all. There were 
smaller trees and logs tangled up in the branches, 
and together they made a dam over which the 
water was pouring like a waterfall. Then he re- 
membered again about Mr. Smith and the axe, and 
he wished that he were there ; and then he thought 
of his father’s last words to him, “ If anything hap- 
pens, you must walk.” 

So, without going back to the house, he started 
down the track in the way his father had gone. 
At first it was not hard. His lantern gave a good 


LET HIM HEA.R! 


55 


light, and he tramped along on the sleepers right 
merrily. But it was raining very hard, and first 
his knees grew wet, and the rain came through his 
clothes on his shoulders, and he began to feel cold 
and wet. Then his lantern grew dim. He did not 
dare open it to try to fix it, it blew so hard. So 
with his bad light he could hardly see his way, and 
at last he stumbled so that he fell into the ditch, 
and filled one of his boots with water, and his lan- 
tern went entirely out. Then he stopped and 
pulled off his boot to pour out the water. He had 
just pulled it on again with some difficulty, for his 
stocking was all wet, when he heard a great rum- 
bling, and had only just time to jump off the track 
as a train came up behind him and passed him, 
going with a rush. 

He called up from the ditch, “Stop! stop!” 
But no one heard him. 

“ Oh, if I were only on that train ! ” he cried, and 
the tears came into his eyes ; and as he pulled out 
his handkerchief to wipe them, he found it was 
wetter than his eyes. 

“ Come, come now, Harry,” said he, aloud, though 
in rather a quavering voice ; “ if you can’t ride, you 
can walk.” So he limped along on the other track, 
and forced the tears back. 

He could see very little, but he walked close to 
the rail, so that he could kick it now and then, and 
kept himself straight. He walked on and on, some- 


56 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


times in cuts and sometimes on the tops of embank- 
ments, where the wind nearly blew him off the 
road. He did not mind being wet now, hut he was 
growing very cold, and his feet had to be dragged 
1‘rom one tie to another. 

At last he saw ahead of him a red light ; it was 
very far off, but he thought he could get there. He 
counted a hundred steps, then a hundred more. 
As he was finishing the third hundred, he reached 
the door. Somehow he got it open, and clambered 
up the stairs on hands and feet. As he reached the 
top, he saw some one sitting at the table. 

Quick,” said he, “ quick ! Tell father there ’s 
a wash-out at Ganister culvert. Quick, or he ’ll 
be too late ! ” Then he laid his head on the top 
step. 

The operator stared ; then he telegraphed the 
superintendent, ‘^A messenger from Ganister re- 
ports a wash-out at the culvert.” Then he picked 
up the fainting boy, stripped off his clothes, built a 
roaring fire, and rubbed some life into him. 

The message was in time. The road had just 
been mended at Six-Mile Dump, and the whole 
force was loaded on the wreck-train to go up to 
Ganister. They stopped at the tower from which 
the news had come ; and there Fetrow found his 
boy sitting up and eating the operator’s supper. 

“ Father,” said he, “ any one would have come who 
heard what I heard.” 


LET HIM hear! 


57 


So his father carried him down to the train, and 
they all went np to Ganister. The water was nearly 
up to the top of the culvert now ; a little more, and 
the bank might have gone. But they had the der- 
rick car on the train, and axes ; and they pulled and 
cut at the logs and trees till the water flowed 
through untrammelled, and the road was safe. 


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Waring and Mike and Tom Flynn. 


S Mr. Emerson Waring was walking home one 



-Tx. evening from an afternoon’s fishing, he passed 
by a crowd of boys just out of the mill, who were 
crowding around something or other which seemed 
to them very interesting. Being, for reasons which 
will appear later, always anxious that things should 
be done in the right way rather than in the wrong 
way, he pushed through the crowd to see what was 
going on ; and having reached the middle of' the 
crowd, he found a cleared space, in which two 
lads were busily engaged in punching each other’s 


heads. 


Waring saw in a minute that things were not 
being done as they should, for both boys were kick- 
ing each other when they got a chance, and from a 
mark on the arm of the bigger fellow, one could 
easily see that he had been bitten. Now, Waring 
had himself once been famous as a boxer, and there- 
fore abominated anything like an unfair fight; so 
he at once strode into the middle of the ring, and 
being much larger and stronger than either of the 
combatants, he restrained one by the collar, and 


60 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


quieted the otlier, who was more obstreperous, by a 
blow on tbe neck wbicb almost knocked bim down. 
He tben said to tbe boys that, of all things disgust- 
ing, tbe most disgusting was a brutal fight like tbe 
one just over; and be went on to say that if they 
wanted to know bow to use their fists fairly, which 
be thought a good thing to know, they might come 
up to see him the next evening, and he would go 
out in the stable and put on the gloves, and show 
them some things about sparring. During this 
address most of the crowd had slunk away (for 
Waring was a man held in awe in the village), and 
by the time he had got through, there were only a 
few left besides the combatants. And these few 
Waring told to clear out, and not to go on fighting ; 
for that, if they did, he -would see to them. And 
with that, he went home. 

Having got home, and having speculated on the 
events just related. Waring canre to the conclusion 
that he had behaved himself very foolishly, and 
that, as usual with him, he had done just the wrong 
thing, because it was the first thing to come into 
his mind ; for, to tell the truth. Waring was a min- 
ister of the Gospel, though, as he thought himself, 
one might have supposed him to be a prize-fighter. 
He was a big, powerful fellow ; had rowed in his 
college crew with great success ; had been a famous 
sparrer, whereby he had won various cups ; and 
was, so far as such things are concerned, a fine 


EMERSON WARING. 


61 


specimen of physical manliness, which is to-day so 
much admired. But besides these excellent things, 
Waring had also another side to his nature; namely, 
the spiritual, under the influence of which he had 
addressed himself to the study of divinity and 
entered a theological school, whence he had, at the 
time of the incident here described, just graduated. 
He was now spending his summer at his father’s 
house in the mill town of Hopevale, previous to 
assuming charge of a parish in the fall. He would ‘ 
himself have preferred to begin his work at once ; 
but his father wished it otherwise, and Waring had 
acceded to his desire. So he was spending his 
summer in a good healthy fashion, giving five or six 
hours a day to books and reading, and the rest of 
his time, barring that devoted to eating and sleep- 
ing, to the out-door amusements, such as fishing and 
boating and walking, of which he was so fond. 
And, on the whole, his time seemed to him well 
spent, s6 that he was sorry he should have broken 
in upon his routine by hitting a boy smaller than 
himself on the neck and almost knocking him 
down. 

As it turned out, however, the incident had better 
consequences than might have been imagined. Only 
one of the boys came around the next evening. 
He was the larger of the two, and his name was 
Michael O’Houlihan. He was rather sheepish at 
first, but not a bit more embarrassed than was 


62 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


Waring himself, who took him out to the stable, as 
he had promised, and put the gloves on with him, 
and showed some parts of the A B C of sparring. 
Mike was a good pupil. He had fought all his life, 
and was as strong as a horse and as quick as a cat ; 
therefore all he needed was “polishing down;” and 
this Waring was just the man to give him, for in 
his day at college he had had no equal at scientific 
sparring. But this story is not meant to tell how 
two young men devoted their time to “punching 
each other’s heads so we must go on. 

O’Houlihan was one of the worst boys in the 
village. Of a race which turns out some most 
excellent men and some most depraved, he had 
sedulously though unconsciously cultivated the 
worst elements of his nature, and allowed the good 
to take care of themselves ; so now, at the age of 
eighteen, he was not only a bully but a loafer, a 
drunkM’d, a liar, and a thief. In fact, he had but 
one good point, so far as could be seen, and that 
was that he was no coward. Even though he would 
bully the small fry, he would never knock under to 
anything big, and this accounts for his presenting 
himself before Waring ; for on holding a confab 
with his late antagonist on the propriety of accept- 
ing the invitation held out to them, he found that 
Tom Flynn shared his own opinion, which was that 
AVaring, having got them into the stable, would 
“ knock it out of them,” to use their own expres- 


EMERSON WARING. 


63 


sion, under the guise of teaching them to box. 
Such was their opinion of the character of a min- 
ister of the Gospel. And in spite of all this, Mike 
had come up to the scratch, and that with the full 
expectation that Waring would “ wipe up the floor” 
with him. 

Of course Waring did nothing of the kind. Feel- 
ing that he had been wrong the night before, he was 
particularly anxious to do right now. So, after they 
had got well warmed up with sparring, he had 
shown Mike the beauty of a cold bath and a “ rub 
down,” and had then invited him up to his own 
room to have a talk. The evening was employed 
in showing Mike pictures of all the famous boxers 
and oarsmen, of which Waring had a good collec- 
tion, and telling anecdotes about those with whom 
he was acquainted. When it was over, Mike was 
so pleased that he anticipated Waring’s invitation, 
and begged that he might come again ; and he did 
come again and again, and so on through the whole 
summer. And in that summer he learned more 
than he had ever learned before. As it seemed to 
him, he was nearer heaven than he ever would be 
again ; for he conceived a passionate admiration for 
Waring, whose strength seemed unbounded, whose 
knowledge unfathomable, and whose patience inex- 
haustible. For Waring in truth exerted the whole 
strength of a powerful nature to take this boy cap- 
tive, and succeeded better than he could have 


64 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


hoped ; for, beginning by exciting the boy’s admira- 
tion for bis physical strength, he went on to show 
him that co-existent with that strength was a moral 
strength which was the ruler and master of the 
other, and by all odds the more important of tlie 
two. So, by these means, he taught Mike many 
excellent lessons. 

And first he taught him to take good care of his 
body, and to make sure that he got the most out of 
it that could be got. And with this end in view, 
Mike gave up drinking, when he found he could 
not hold a revolver steady, and gave up smoking 
when he found he could not keep his wind so 
long if he smoked. And these ends Waring reached 
by absolute experiment. For he gave Mike a re- 
volver, and made liim practise after drinking and 
before. And seeing the boy had capabilities as a 
runner, he taught him to run, and then insisted on 
his running for a week while he smoked, and then 
leaving off smoking a fortnight, and at the end of 
that time running again. And as these things were 
things that had never before occurred to Mike, and 
as he was a sensible fellow, it was not hard to use 
the boy’s ambition to be great as an athlete as a 
means of keeping his body pure. 

Then, second, for fear that he should make his 
protdg^ nothing more than a fair prize-fighter. War- 
ing proceeded to give him to understand that all 
this physical power which he was cultivating so 


EMERSON WARING. 


65 


assiduously was only to be used as a servant for 
the spiritual power, which lies, sometimes so sadly 
dormant, in everybody’s heart. And this he ex- 
emplified first by himself; for he showed Mike that 
he, who might become a professional oarsman or a 
good boxer, cared nothing for any such business, 
but cared only to devote himself to furthering the 
interests of God’s kingdom in this world. This 
was a harder lesson than the first ; but Waring held 
on vigorously to his purpose, using every means in 
his power to awake some signs of spiritual life in 
the boy, and at last he came to some measure of 
success. 

So, by the end of the summer, Mike O’Houlihan 
had become something a good deal better than he 
had been at the beginning. He had given up many 
of his bad habits, — some because lie saw they were 
bad, and some only to please Waring. He had 
vastly improved his physical condition, and done 
something toward training his mind. And .spirit- 
ually he was on a higher plane. But I ought not 
to have spent so much time in telling all about this, 
for it is not the chief end of my story. For every- 
body must see that when a powerful and good 
nature is brought into communication with a weak 
and bad one, the good will in the end triumph. 
So there is nothing strange in Mike’s change for 
the better, when we consider that Waring devoted 
himself to him, heart and soul, passing evening 

5 


66 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


after evening with him, and often whole days, for 
there were various occasions when Mike had noth- 
ing to do.' And this part of the story seems to me 
only a matter of course, when the good man is will- 
ing to devote himself wholly to the bad one. And 
this Waring was willing to do, first, as a sort of 
obligation entailed when he hit Mike in the neck ; 
and second, through love and affection for the lad 
himself, for everybody likes the things that they 
have themselves called into being. 

Now, one evening the two were in the stable 
after their sparring, pouring great pails of water 
over each other, preparatory to “rubbing down.” 
And when they got through, and were sitting down 
enjoying themselves, Mike said, “Mr. Emerson, I 
have something I want to say to you.” And War- 
ing said, “ Say ahead, Mike.” So Mike went on, 
looking at the stable floor : “You know all you Ve 
done for me this summer, — a great deal better than 
I know it, I guess. You ’ve made a man of me, 
out of what was very little better than a beast ; and 
if I ever get to be anything in this world, it ’ll all 
be through the days of this summer you ’ve spent 
with me. And you know I love you for it, and 
will to my last day. But now you are going down 
to New York,” — for Waring’s work was to be a 
mission in some evil part of New York City, — and 
here Mike paused a moment, and then bolted out, 
“ So I want you to take me with you.” Then he 


EMEKSON WARING. 


67 


went on rapidly, “Fori can’t stay liere without you. 
I ’d never get anywhere by myself. I’d never be 
no more than I am now, if I did n’t slide back to 
where I was. You know, Mr. Emerson, that you ’re 
everything to me here. The town’s nothing to me 
without you ; and if you go away, I shall be just 
lost, and I shall never do anything nor be of any 
use to myself nor no one else.” And with this 
Mike’s voice broke, and he almost began to cry. 

For a time Waring said nothing, but then he 
said : “ You ’d better not go down to the city, Mike. 
It ’s no place for a man like you. It would n’t be 
any place for a man like me if I had n’t got work 
to do there. There ’s no air in the city for a man 
to breathe. I always feel close and cramped there. 
It ’s no place for you ; there ’s nothing for you to 
do there ; you ’d better stay here. And I ’ll tell 
you one thing plainly : I don’t believe you ’d keep 
straight in New York City for six months.” 

“ Well, Mr. Emerson, I know I should n’t keep 
straight here for six months without you,” cried 
Mike. “ Oh, do let me stay by you ! I ’m no good 
away from you. I’ve no show. I can find work 
enough in the city, — there ’s lots of things for 
strong fellows like me to do. I know well enough 
that I could get along and look out for myself, and 
be no burden to you. And, Mr. Emerson, I must 
be somewhere where I can see you and talk to you, 
and get your advice and help ; for I ’d go to the 


68 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


devil without you, just as I was going when you 
pulled me up.” 

And at this Waring, who had been thinking for 
a while, began again : “ I have n’t told you the real 
reason, Mike, why you should n’t go with rae to the 
city. It is n’t so much because tliere is nothing for 
you to do, and it is n’t because I think you might 
as well learn to stand -by yourself now as well as 
any other time, though I do think so. It is n’t 
about you at all It ’s just this, and I ’ll try to tell 
you in as few words as I can. It ’s because it 
would be dead against the whole thing I’ve been 
trying to teach you this summer, and dead against 
wliat I mean to try to teach every one else all 
through my life. For you know I am one of those 
who think they know the way in which this earth 
is going to be made into the kingdom of God. All 
ministers are. They think that if the world would 
do as Christ says, the Lord’s kingdom would come. 
And how do you suppose I tliink this is going, to 
happen ? Am I and all the rest of the ministers 
going to preach to bad men and make them into 
good men, and go about among the rest of the world 
till we have preached Christ to everybody ? That ’.s 
not exactly the way. It would take too long to do 
it that way, and it would n’t be tlie right way, eitlier, 
for those whom we taught. But the right way is to 
teach one person, and make him go off and teach 
another. That ’s what Christ did himself He 


EMERSON WARING. 


69 


did n’t go about ,tlie world till he had seen every- 
body in it and explained how the kingdom of God 
should come. No ; he taught those about him, and 
then sent them forth to teach others. He said to 
them, ‘Freely ye have received, freely give.’ And 
if that had n’t been at the root of his gospel, why, 
that gospel would never have gone to Eome, to 
England and America, and we should n’t be here to- 
day. Why, that ’s one of the foundation stones of 
the whole business, that we should n’t keep to our- 
selves what we ’ve heard, but should go about tell- 
ing it to somebody else. That ’s what the word 
‘apostle’ means. It means a person sent out, — a 
person sent out to tell those things he has himself 
heard. And that’s why you ought to stay here, 
and not go to New York, even if it were a better 
place for you, which it isn’t. No man ought to 
live to himself alone. And that ’s what you would 
be doing if you went down to New York, all to be 
near me, so that you might make something out of 
yourself. No ; you ought to stay here. You ’ve 
learned something this summer. Are you going to 
keep it to yourself? Not if I know you. What 
you must do is this : you must find out somebody 
else who wants to know what you know, and tlieii 
go about the best way of teaching him. Try Tom 
Flynn.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Emerson, I can never do for any one 
what you ’ve done for me.” 


70 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


“ Try and see,” said Waring. 

And, as a matter of fact. Waring went off alone 
to New York, and Mike stayed up at Hope vale, and 
Tom Flynn is an apostle of the Lord Jesus to-day. 
And Hopevale is a better place to live in, every 
day, than it was the day before. And as for Mike 
O’Houlihan, if you want to know whether he ever 
“ got anywhere,” ask the Kecording Angel. 


Only Believe. 


T JUST think that boy will be the death of me, 
mother. He stops at nothing. From morn- 
ing till night ’t is one thing or the other. I don’t be- 
lieve he 11 ever amount to anything ; and why Mark 
would bring him here, I don’t know.” And tired 
from a fresh encounter with Jacob, from which she 
could hardly say she was victorious, Mrs. Lincoln 
sank down in a low chair and began to rock herself 
vigorously. 

A placid-faced old lady looked up from her knit- 
ting, and with a smile full of sympathy for Mrs. 
Lincoln and love for the wayward Jacob, waited a 
moment before speaking. 

“ You remind me of my young days, Sarah,” she 
said. I did n’t use to have much faith in things, 
but Jemima (she was my twin-sister and Mark’s 
aunt; she died about the time John was born) 
always knew that she should find good in every- 
thing. She had faith that ’twas there, and so it 
was ; when she attempted to do anything, she 
seemed to believe she could do it, and she did. I 
remember once when a little bird tumbled out of 


72 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


its nest, Jemima climbed the tree, though she was 
scared always to climb high, and she put that bird 
back. She said when once she had made up her 
mind it seemed just as if she could, and that was 
all there was about it. 

“ When your uncle Paul went away to sea, he 
was uncommon fond of us girls, and he sent back 
from foreign parts some flower-seeds. They were 
black and hard as a stone. We planted them, but 
they did n’t come up ; so after a while we dug them 
up, but there was n’t any sign of sprouting. After 
trying it two or three times, I threw mine away ; 
but Jemima, she said she believed there was life in 
those seeds, and she shouldn’t rest till she had 
found out how to get it out. Well, she tried a good 
many ways, and at last somebody told her to soak 
them. And she did soak them for two or three 
days, and then she planted them. Sure enough in 
a couple of weeks she had a little green leaf, and 
before the summer was over there was a lovely big 
plant full of blossoms. When I see you so dis- 
couraged and doubtful about Jacob, it reminds me 
of Jemima and me. Sarah,” continued she after a 
pause, and her eyes twinkled behind her spectacles, 
“ why don’t you soak Jacob ? ” 

Mrs. Lincoln looked at her mother-in-law a little 
doubtfully. To tell the truth, she did not always 
understand the quiet old lady’s stories and the mis- 
chievous look on her face. 


ONLY BELIEVE. 


73 


“ I don’t think I know exactly what' your remedy 
is, mother. I try to do my duty by the boy and 
train him up as I should. I don’t know why Mark 
would bring that boy to torment me; but he did, 
and ’twas just like him, and” — after a moment’s 
hesitation and in a softer voice, “ and I don’t know 
as I want him any different, even if I do grumble 
sometimes. But what do you mean by ‘ soaking 
him’ ?” added Mrs. Lincoln, her moment’s ill-nature 
driven away, and with a bright smile on her face 
again. 

“ What I mean is just this ; show Jacob that you 
believe in him, — really do believe that at heart he 
is all right and that only on the outside is this crust. 
Let this belief be so clear and so constant that he 
too takes courage and begins to believe it. I don’t 
know what else you can call it,” said the old lady, 
with one of her quiet smiles, “ except ‘ soaking.’ 
Just soak Jacob. Don’t be afraid to try, but actu- 
ally believe you ’ll succeed, and you will.” 

Mrs. Lincoln looked doubtful. “ But he is un- 
truthful, mother.” 

“ Yes, so he is. But he never lies to shield him- 
self, and I don’t believe he likes to do it anyway.” 

“ No, you ’re right. But he will take things.” 

“ Yes, I know he does ; but I cannot think he 
realizes what he is doing.” 

“ Perhaps he don’t. After all, I don’t know as I 
ought to call it stealing exactly. Did I tell you 


74 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


about his taking the eggs ? That was too funny. 
You see, eggs were pretty high in the market and I 
was saving ours along, so as to get a new cover for 
the lounge. You know Mark likes that lounge, and 
it was getting pretty shabby. I began to think 
that the eggs did n’t save up as fast as they ought, 
considering how careful I was of them ; and what do 
you think that boy had done ? He had taken two 
or three at a time till it counted up most three 
dozen to put in the nests for nest eggs. He was so 
worked up when he found that we had porcelain 
eggs there that he threw them all in the well and 
put good ones in their places.” And Mrs. Lincoln 
laughed heartily as she thought of Jacob’s indig- 
nation. “ I should be willing to trust him with 
money, and you know he will guard the house like 
a watch-dog.” 

“ Well, Sarah, you must remember the boy never 
knew what it was to be trusted before Mark brought 
him home. He had lived from hand to mouth, 
with no teaching to make him better. He cer- 
tainly must have some ideas of right and wrong, 
or you would find him telling falsehoods to 
save himself from some of the punishments 
which he receives, and you would not dare 
leave him alone as you do when you go away 
down street.” 

About six weeks before Mark Lincoln had gone 
to Boston on business. Just as he was preparing 


ONLY BELIEVE. 


75 


to go back to his country home, a friend said to 
him : ‘‘ Mark, I ’ve got a boy, eight years old, here. 
He needs a good home to save him from the dogs. 
I rescued him just as he was being sent to a public 
institution. Nobody owns him. He ’s shifted for 
himself ever since he could toddle. To tell the 
truth, Mark, his eyes look like my mother’s, and 
I ’m bound to find a home for him.” 

Mark remembered the tender eyes of his friend’s 
mother who had nursed him through a long illness 
one winter when his own mother was far away ; and 
when the boy looked up at him half appealingly, 
half resentfully, as Mark took him by the hand and 
said, “ Come home with me, J acob, and be my boy ? ” 
the look changed to a trustful one. He put his 
hand in Mark’s, and away they started for Mark 
Lincoln’s home. 

Mrs. Lincoln looked surprised and not very well 
pleased when Mark told her what he had done. 
But she was a kind-hearted, conscientious woman, 
although of quick temper ; and taking the boy in, 
she tried to make him happy. But she did not feel 
quite reconciled to have him there, and she had very 
little faith that he would ever be anything more 
than a vagabond. Jacob had once heard her say 
this, and he knew the word. Alas ! it was too fa- 
miliar to him. With childlike instinct he knew 
she was suspicious of him, and so from day to day 
his mischievous, ill-taught ways troubled and 


76 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


worried her, and hardly grew any better. This was 
the state of things when Mother Lincoln came to 
make a visit. 

“ Soak him ! ” thought Sarah to herself, as she 
washed up tlie tea-things. “ Soak him ! ” ran in her 
mind when, after the work was done, she took her 
knitting and rested herself in the twilight. “ I don’t 
know but mother is right. I will believe he means 
right and not wrong ; ” and following out a habit 
of many years, she ceased clicking her needles 
and said in her heart, “ Help me, Father, to 
believe it.” 

Suddenly she started. “ I wonder if that boy 
will always disobey ! Jacob ! Jacob ! come here 
this minute.” 

A sturdy little figure, with self-will evident in 
every step, slowly walked up the path toward 
her. As he did so, “Soak him” came to her 
mind, and a silent prayer, Help me. Father, to 
believe.” 

Her voice changed to one of affection. She looked 
kindly at the boy. “ Jacob, I don’t think you want 
to do what Mr. Lincoln and I have asked you not 
to do. We don’t want you to go to that wood- 
house. Now, if you were going there, you must 
have had some reason. Won’t you tell me what it 
was ? ” 

Jacob looked as if he hardly heard aright ; but a 
kind look reassured him. He hung his head. But 


ONLY BELIEVE. 


77 


her faith did not fail her ; she had asked help and 
she had received it. She waited a moment and was 
rewarded. 

“ Yes, ma’am, I was goin’ tliere. There ’s a lot of 
kittens under the wood, and they ’re most starved. 
They haven’t any mother. I heard ’em yellin’, and 
so I carry ’em a little milk ’most every day. I ’rn 
sorry you don’t like it ; but you know you said dahez 
should drown the next lot of kittens you found, and 
you won’t let him drown these, will you ? ” And poor 
Jacob looked up with tears in the eyes which cer- 
tainly looked honest. 

Yes, I ’m afraid I did say so,” said Mrs. Lincoln, 
as she remembered the hasty words. “ I don’t think 
I ought to have said it. Let us go together and see 
the kittens.” And she smiled to herself as she saw 
the remnants of thick cream on the edge of his little 
tin dipper, and remembered the eggs. 

Together they went hand in hand to the woodshed 
where indeed were three poor, miserable, half-fed 
kittens. 

“ Do you love them very much ? ” inquired Mrs. 
Lincoln. 

“ Oh, yes ! I do. You won’t drown ’em, will 
you?” 

“No, Jacob, I won’t; but you and I will move 
them to a safer place, and you shall feed them. But 
I don’t think I would give them cream. We want 
that for something else. I will give you some nice, 


78 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


new milk every morning and evening, and that will 
be better for them. You did n’t know that before, 
did you ? ” Poor Jacob looked ashamed. “ When 
they are nice and fat, you can go around to the 
neighbors, and perhaps you can find homes for two, 
and you shall have the other for your very 
own. You did disobey me; 'but you did n’t mean 
to do wrong, and I do not believe you ’ll do it 
again.” 

Jacob looked grateful and happy. After the kit- 
tens were safely housed and a fresh supply of new 
milk given them, Jacob sat down on the piazza and 
in a simple, pathetic way told stories of his old city 
life. Mrs. Lincoln noted that he made no effort to 
save himself from blame. She felt her faitli increase. 
She began to feel sure that Jacob had better points 
tlian she had ever thought. 

That night she prayed long and earnestly for wis- 
dom to deal witli this little waif, and for faith to 
envelop him like a cloud and crush the crust of 
wickedness which seemed sometimes impenetrable. 
And as she prayed she felt a sense of God’s presence 
and help as never before. She rose from her knees 
with new life and purpose. 

Mother Lincoln, dear old soul ! went home next 
day. As she was getting into the carriage, Sarah 
said to her : That was queer advice, mother, but 
t was good. I ’ve tried it, and am convinced it will 
work.” 


ONLY BELIEVE. 


79 


“ What ’s that, mother ? ” said Mark. “ What 
advice have you been giving Sarah now ? ” 

“We Ve learned to soak our seeds when they 
are too hard to sprout otherwise,” said Sarah, 
lauohing. 

o o 

“ Well, I don’t know much about that,” said Mark ; 
“ Jabez attends to the farming.”* And away he went 
with his mother. 

But Jacob did not cease to be untruthful and dis- 
honest all at once. There were days when he seemed 
to Mrs. Lincoln to go all wrong, — days when he 
disobeyed, when he did tell lies, when he was in all 
sorts of mischief. But Mrs. Lincoln never forgot to 
add to her faith by prayer ; and the atmosphere of 
faith and love in w’hich J acob was fairly “ soaked ” 
soon cracked away the hard casing, and the boy’s 
soul, striving for better things, was led to a purer, 
holier, more unselfish life. 

Ten years later, Mrs. Lincoln sits in the low rock- 
ing-chair, talking to Mother Lincoln, who, grown 
older and sweeter and more quiet, listens with hap- 
piness and interest. And this is what Mrs. Lincoln 
is saying, — - 

“There goes Jacob now! What should we do 
without him ? ” and she points with pride to a 
tall, good-looking young fellow, who is coming up 
the walk with his books under his arm. Do you 
remember your advice to ‘soak him’? I followed 


80 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


it. It was with fear and trembling. Many a time 
I faltered ; but I prayed for help, and it came. It 
was a long time before I felt the boy wa^ wholly 
mine. You see the improvement in him. And, 
mother, I ’m a different woman. In my efforts to 
save Jacob, I have saved myself. I know now what 
it means, — ‘ Be not afraid, only believe.’ ” 


Repentance. 



ID n’t you like what Mr. Arnold said this 


morning ? ” asked a round-faced, merry-look- 
ing girl of her more serious companion, as a group 
of girls were walking home after their Bible-class. 

“ Yes, I did,” returned Alice Lewis. “ It seems 
to me that nobod}" makes things go right home to 
you as Mr. Arnold does.” 

“ It seems to me,” rejoined Jennie Cummings 
behind them, that he does n’t say but one thing.” 

“ Perhaps that ’s because there is n’t but one thing 
to say,” ventured a quiet little voice from a girl 
dressed in gray. From her gray dress and quiet 
ways, the girls called her Mousie. Her real name 
was Hellie Coleman. 

“ Oh, Jennie, you ’re too bad ! ” exclaimed Kate 
Andrews, — a dignified girl, who had not yet spoken. 
'' I think Mr. Arnold has a great deal to say. I 
don’t believe you like him, do you ? ” 

Jennie’s face flushed. She opened her lips to 
speak, but the girls all looked so much in earnest 
that she shut them again without saying a word, 


6 


82 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


The little group came to a standstill on the corner, 
and it seemed as if all began to talk at once. 

“ Shame, Jennie ! You know Mr. Arnold knows 
lots of things. He called at our house the other 
day, and mother said he was the best-read young 
man she had met for a long while. She did, so ! ” 
And Alice Lewis fairly gasped in her indignation. 

‘‘ He’s just splendid ! ” emphatically pronounced 
Jessie Smith, the girl with the mass of red hair 
which was always breaking loose from its pins. 
“ I ’m sure he says a lot more things than I remem- 
ber. I should n’t think Jennie would say such 
things ! And as for Mousie, she don’t count any 
way, for there isn’t any sense to what she said 
about there being only ' one thing to say.’ ” 

Mousie laughed. She was used to being snubbed 
by the girls, wdro all loved her dearly and who 
would have resented it quickly enough if any 
one outside their own circle had spoken even slight- 
ingly of their favorite schoolmate. 

“Why don’t Jennie Cummings explain what she 
means ? ” said the first girl who had spoken. “ No- 
body shall ever say that Lois Granger is n’t open to 
conviction.” And she wound up with a laugh that 
was easily recognized as belonging to just such a 
merry, fun-loving face. 

“ I don’t mind explaining if you ’ll give me a 
chance,” said Jennie, good-humoredly. “ It seemed 
clear enough to me ; but you all seemed so bound 


THEY WENT AND PKEACHED. 


83 


to think I was wrong, I did n’t know but I was 
myself — ” 

“ Now go on, Jennie. Don’t stop for a preface. 
We must get home to dinner. Be quick, now ! ” 
interrupted Lois. 

All right ! I think Mousie understands what I 
mean. Old Mr. Green, of blessed memory but a 
very tedious old man, used to preach to us on wick- 
edness most of the time. We did n’t enjoy it very 
much. I know I did n’t. But now Mr. Arnold has 
come, though he preaches on all sorts of texts, it 
seems to me he never says anything but love. Let 
him begin where he will, he winds up with love to 
God and love to man. Is n’t that so, Mousie ? ” 
Mousie smiled and nodded. “ That ’s just what I 
meant when I said, ' There ’s only one thing to say.’ 
I did n’t use to think so ; but wherever I begin I 
end just there. What a pity ’tis that we don’t 
practise what we hear and know so well better than 
we do 1 Why, Mr. Arnold said the other day that 
if the Ten Times One clubs multiplied as the theory 
was, that it would take only twenty-seven years to 
convert the whole world.” 

“I don’t believe it !” exclaimed Jessie Smith. 
“ Twenty-seven years, pooh ! ” 

“ Well, I ’m only telling you what he said,” con- 
tinued Mousie, a little Hushed. “ The book is in 
the library, and you can reckon it up for yourself 
and see. I ’ve rather wondered that we girls did n’t 


84 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


have a club. We like to be together; and I should 
have proposed it before, but I did n’t like to. I was 
afraid Jessie would snub me, — fairly demolish me,” 
said she mischievously, glancing at Jessie. 

“Well, so she will, if she ever gets a chance and 
her hair don’t tumble down just at tliat lucky min- 
ute,” retorted Jessie, twisting up a long lock and 
tugging vigorously at the pins. “ But say, girls, if 
we want to form a club, it seems to me we might 
as well adjourn to my house and talk it over as to 
stand here on the corner of the street while I make 
my toilet.” 

The girls laughed, and crossed the street to Mrs. 
Smith’s house. In a few minutes their tongues 
were running so fast that Kate Andrews rapped on 
the table and called them to order. 

“ Attention, girls ! We have come together to 
form a club. Our history is this ; Jennie Cum- 
mings says our new minister does n’t say but one 
thing. Mousie agrees with her. If we practise 
that one thing and multiply according to Ten 
Times One doctrine, the whole world will be re- 
formed in twenty-seven years. We couldn’t begin 
our work on the sidewalk because Jessie Smith’s 
hair would tumble down; so we adjourned here. 
I have now said as far as I know ; and if any- 
body else can turn on more light, I ’m ready to 
listen.” 

Kate sat dowp, cojisoious of a concise statement. 


THEY WENT AND PREACHED. 


8o 


“Will Mousie please take the floor,” called out 
one of the girls, “ and tell us her idea of a club ? ” 

“ My ideas are n’t very settled, but 1 ’ve no doubt 
so many smart girls [and here Mousie bowed very 
sedately to them] as tliere are here can settle them 
very quickly. That sermon this morning made me 
think; and it did Jennie too, I guess. I didn’t 
know it did, until she spoke as she did on our way 
over here ; but then I knew we had both got into 
the same track. Mr. Arnold said, ‘ And they went 
out and preached that men should repent.’ He said 
there were lots of ways of preaching, and we could 
all preach, and we did n’t have to say ‘ repent’ in 
so many words, but w^e preached in order that they 
should repent. He said if we preached in that 
way we should lead them to repent, and we would 
lead them if we loved them. There ! I told you it 
was always the same thing. And then he said that 
when people repented they didn’t always say so, 
but they felt a new feeling in their hearts to do 
what was right, and some tried one way and some 
another ; but if they tried the Golden Eule, they ’d 
be pretty sure to come to repentance. That is n’t 
exactly what he said. I know I ’ve made a bungle 
of it. But that’s the best I can do; and if Jennie 
remembers any more, let her tell now.” 

Jennie shook her head. 

“ Well, then,” continued Mousie, “ what if we 
form a club, and love people so really and truly that 


86 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


we preach to them, and they begin to love people 
so truly that they preach too. We won’t say ‘re- 
pent,’ and they won’t say ‘repent,’ because — I 
don’t know exactly why — that word always seems 
to me like running right up against a wall. Does 
it make any difference if we don’t use the word, if 
the whole spirit is there ? ” 

“Why, I like the word, don’t you?” exclaimed 
Lois Granger, with a queer quirk of her mouth. 
“It somehow makes me feel as if I had made a 
turn clean round and begun afresh. I vote we call 
this the ‘ Eepentants’ Club,’ and we can all take a 
fresh start.” 

“ Oh,” said Mousie, “ if that ’s the way you look 
at it, go ahead ! I ’ve no objection to the ‘ Eepent- 
ants’ Club,’ but I don’t feel exactly as if I wanted 
to say ‘ Eepent ’ to everybody I meet.” 

“ Let us put it to vote,” said Sarah Pray. “ Here ’s 
my pad. You can write whatever names you want, 
and give them to Kate.” 

When Kate counted up the votes, she announced 
three for the “ Eepentants’ Club,” one for the “ Ee- 
form Club,” one for “Ten Times One Club,” one for 
the “ Persuasive Club,” and one for the “ Preachers’ 
Club.” 

They next elected three more members from 
among their schoolmates to make the required 
ten. 

“ It would be too bad,” said Lois, “ to start out 


THEY WENT AND PREACHED. 


87 


on our crusade with less than the orthodox number. 
Now, if I could multiply as well as Mousie, I could 
tell you how much longer it would take if we began 
with seven.” 

“ Don’t it seem to you it would be a good plan 
to elect* our officers?” said Sarah Pray, the quiet 
girl who rarely spoke. The girls laughed. 

“I don’t suppose we do know much about it,” 
said Kate. “ Maybe we ought to have elected 
them before. I don’t know. But if you are all 
agreed, we’ll elect them now.” 

No objection being made to this plan, the club 
proceeded to elect Kate as president and Sarah 
Pray as secretary, — to serve also as treasurer if 
ever they had need of such an officer. After some 
discussion it was resolved to take the text of the 
morning as the special object of their club, — “to 
preach that men should repent.” The new club 
then adjourned until the next week. 

The young minister, Mr. Arnold, was greatly in- 
terested when he heard from Mrs. Smith the story 
of the club. He was touched, too, to find that he 
was understood so well by the young people of his 
congregation, and that tliey were in sympathy with 
him. 

“Just call upon them for any work you want 
done, Mr. Arnold,” added Mrs. Smith. “It will be 
a real help to them. They need guidance, but they 
are shy of asking it.” 


88 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


Two days afterwards, Kate Andrews received a 
note from Mr. Arnold. It read thus : — 

Dear Miss Kate, — There is a wretchedly poor family 
down at No. 50 I Street. Will you go and see them with 
some friend, and show them that they are not the scum of 
the earth? 

Always sincerely yours, 

Henry J. Arnold. 

I guess I ’ll go and get Mousie,” said Kate to 
her mother. “ I should n’t wonder if that ’s just the 
work for the Eepentants’ Club ! What a curious 
name!” she mused. “Mr. Arnold doesn’t say if 
there are children, or if they are starving or what, 
— ‘ wretchedly poor family ; ’ that ’s all. Well, 
we ’ll go and preach in our fashion that they may 
come back into the ‘ Way of Life.’ ” 

That afternoon Kate and Mousie sallied out. 
They took “neither scrip nor purse.” In a poor 
locality they found the family. Wretchedly poor 
they were, and all ambition to do better apparently 
liad left them. To get bread for the day and 
clothes for their covering seemed to be all they 
looked forward to. The mother, weary and dis- 
couraged, told her story of want and sorrow ; and 
Mousie cried with her as slie described the sickness 
and death of the one boy whom she had loved more 
than all else on earth. Kate talked with the oldest 
girl, a child twelve years of age, about the window- 
garden exhibit, and promised to send her a gera- 


THEY WENT AND PREACHED. 


89 


Ilium ; and with an urgent invitation to come again, 
the girls left. ** 

“ Do you think we helped them to repent ? ” said 
Kate on their way home. 

“ Yes, I do,” said Mousie. I don’t see as we did 
anything ; but our motive was good, and that ’s what 
the Bible means, — ‘ preach in order that men should 
repent.’ If we don’t make blunders, I think they 
will repent. It would n’t astonish me if we found 
that indolent woman, her two dirty children, and 
that drunken brute of a man a different family one 
of these days.” 

Two days later the two girls went again to the 
wretched home, Kate carrying her best geranium 
for Lucy. 

‘‘Seems to me they have begun to repent al- 
ready,” said Mousie, as they came out. “ Did you 
see that Lucy had on a clean apron, and Mrs. Mul- 
len actually forgot her troubles while I was telling 
her what a quantity of plants they had at tlie 
Public Garden ready to give away to any one who 
wanted them. She asked me if Lucy could go for 
one and give it to a bedridden woman who lives 
upstairs.” 

“ We ’ve begun already on the Ten Times One 
principle,” said Kate. “ I wonder we never thought 
of it before. But Mrs. Mullen did seem a great 
deal nicer than she was when we went the first 
time.” 


90 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


A week passed, and the two girls found them- 
selves at Mrs. Mullen’s door again. John Mullen 
himself, sober, opened the door. He had found 
some employment, and for the time being would 
not lapse again. All this Mrs. Mullen explained 
to Kate, while Lucy and her little sister showed 
Mousie the plants, the clean-washed window, and 
the rude trellis John Mullen had made, and told 
her how happy old Miss Brown looked when Lucy 
had taken the plant to her. “ She said,” said Lucy, 
“ that we did her no end of good, and if I ’d go up 
to her now and then she ’d show me how to make 
some paper flowers, and maybe I could sell ’em and 
fix up things a little. I could go to meeting and 
Sunday-school like the other girls then,” she added 
in a confidential whisper. 

“ They Ve begun to preach too,” said Kate, half 
laughing, as they came out. “I begin to feel a 
real affection for those people. Mrs. Mullen is n’t 
such a 'poor miserble creeter’ as I thought for. 
She quite blossomed out to-day. I wonder if that 
blossoming was a little bit of repentance ? ” 

When Kate and Mousie announced to the club 
that they were going to preach, the other girls ex- 
claimed, " Is there nothing for us to do ? ” But 
Mrs. Smith quieted them, saying that work would 
come, and once started there would be no trouble. 
One thing would lead to another. 

The next day as Jennie and Jessie — the "two 


THEY WENT AND PREACHED. 


91 


J ays,” as their friends called them — were coming 
home from a visit to a friend in a suburban town, 
they noticed a little Italian girl just outside the 
station talking earnestly with her brother, a wee 
newsboy. The two Jays had studied Italian a lit- 
tle, and were glad to find out that they could un- 
derstand nearly all she said. Away ran the boy ; 
but the two girls lingered, ostensibly to buy some 
peanuts, but really to have a chance to talk a lit- 
tle with Bianca in her own tongue. It was but 
a moment. The girls never knew exactly how it 
was. The wee newsboy was brought wounded and 
faint to the little peanut-stand. Poor little Bianca 
had no friends. She could only speak a few words 
of English, and she looked helplessly at the two 
girls who had just now chatted to her in her native 
tongue. 

“ I will stay with you,” said Jessie, and Jennie 
ran for a doctor. Fortunately she found one near 
at hand, who proved a kind man. He examined 
the little sufferer, found him badly bruised, but no 
bones broken. Then ordering a carriage he took 
the little fellow to his home. Bianca urged her 
new friends to go with her, and seeing her distress 
they consented. In a bad quarter of the city, in 
the garret of an old house, lived the two children, 
with an old woman whose relationship no one 
knew. She flew into a passionate fit of anger as 
she saw the wounded boy brought in. As her eyes. 


92 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


liowever, fell on the two Jays, she controlled herself 
a little ; but probably thinking they could not un- 
derstand her, she returned to her torrent of abuse 
with an outward calmness assumed to deceive the 
two girls. 

Jessie and Jennie could understand enough to 
catch the general drift of her words. They stood 
there speechless and indignant. But in a few mo- 
ments the old woman subsided into silence. Bianca, 
with the help of the girls, made the boy as com- 
fortable as they could ; and the two Jays left, prom- 
ising to come again the next day. 

This was but the beginning of a series of visits. 
Bianca, little by little, told her whole story, — how, 
left orphans, the old woman had taken them, and 
how they had been made to work for her and sup- 
port her. She had taught them to steal and to lie. 
All this Bianca confessed with her eyes dropped 
down in shame, while little Angelo from his bed 
looked on in wonder. The girls were full of inter- 
est and kind words. They talked and pleaded with 
the children to do what was right and bear the con- 
sequences. They would be their friends and try to 
help them. Bianca knew that it was wrong ; but 
beatings and harsh words, cold and hunger, had 
driven them to it. She promised to try to do 
better, and if Angelo could ever go about again she 
would teach him too to be truthful and honest. It 
would be too long a story to follow out the lives of 


THEY WENT AND PREACHED. 


93 


Bianca and Angelo. Bianca did try, encouraged 
by the girls, who interested their friends in the or- 
phans. Just as plans were being perfected to re- 
move them from their old home and place them 
among better influences, the old woman took a se- 
vere cold and died. Almost to the last she was 
cross and ugly, but a ray of love penetrated her 
heart before she died. She called the children, 
and in a harsh voice, with just a touch of feel- 
ing in it, said, God forgive me ! I would n’t be 
so wicked again,” and sank into unconsciousness. 
Bianca and Angelo turned to their new home with 
joy. Bright at school, happy in their home life, 
brave, conscientious children, they became the hope 
and pride of the two old people who adopted them 
from the Home where the two Jays had been in- 
strumental in placing them. 

And while the two Jays had been preaching, a 
trouble had sprung up in Miss Highwater’s school, 
which nearly all the girls attended. It was not a 
new trouble. It was one of long duration ; and 
neither Miss High water from her standpoint of 
propriety, nor gentle Miss Sweet with her love of 
peace, had been able to stem the tide. It was that 
fearful and unkind thing, — gossip. 

A new light broke on the Eepentants’ Club. 
“ Let us speak no evil,” said Carrie Black, one of 
the new girls ; and Sarah Pray seconded her motion. 
They were popular girls in the school ; and after the 


94 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


first few days of wonder and gentle scoffing, the 
movement spread. A fine of one cent was levied 
on each girl who was caught saying an unkind or 
malicious thing of another. In questions of doubt 
a committee of three settled the matter. At the 
end of the term the accumulated fines were to be 
invested and a gift made to the girl who had paid 
the most. If, however, no girl had been fined 
more than three times, the money was to be spent 
in chocolates ; for as Jessie Smith said, “ If nobody 
paid more than three cents, they couldn’t buy 
enough to hurt them, and all the girls would de- 
serve a reward.” 

Kitty Rogers and Lois Granger joined hands 
in protecting animals. They subscribed for “Our 
Dumb Animals,” and woe unto the boy or girl who 
was found tormenting any poor creature. Lois 
made one firm friend in a bootblack, who, ragged 
and forlorn, yet had a tender heart for animals, and 
seeing Lois one day defending a cat against a huge 
dog that had cornered it, came to her rescue. From 
that time on, he brought her homeless creatures 
which she cared for, and in turn Lois coaxed him 
into the Mission School, wliere he became a con- 
stant attendant. 

Alice Lewis and Susie French threw themselves 
with great interest into the mission work of the 
church. When it was proposed to send a box to 
an Indian school, the two girls whispered to each 


THEY WENT AND PREACHED. 


95 


other. After sundry meetings and long afternoons 
spent together, they appeared at the vestry just 
before the box was closed, bringing a long package 
addressed to the principal of the Indian school. 
At the earnest request of the ladies Alice opened 
the box, and showed a beautiful doll with two com- 
plete suits of clothes that would all take off and 
on. A note to the teacher was pinned to the dress. 
It merely said, “ Will you please give this doll to 
the worst-behaved little girl you have in school, and 
tell her it comes from two girls who love her ? ” It 
was not until three months had passed that a letter 
came, enclosed in one to Mr. Arnold, for the “Two 
girls who loved the Indian girl and sent the doU.” 
The letter told of the stolid little Indian who had 
never been won until the doll came. The mission- 
ary added, “ She seems now like another child ; she 
was touched more than by all our talks with her.” 

When the spring came, the Eepentants’ Club met 
in Mrs. Smith’s parlor again. They had been asked 
to tea, as it was the last meeting of the season be- 
fore the girls separated for the summer. Mr. Ar- 
nold too was there, looking bright and happy. 
When supper was over, he rose, requesting permis- 
sion to say a few words. 

He briefly reviewed his short pastorate and the 
love and sympathy which had been given him in 
his work. But he felt he had been understood by 


96 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


the Kepentants’ Club as by none others. They 
had grasped his meaning, and gone out in the spirit 
of our Lord’s command, and preached to all men 
that they should repent. They had preached in 
many ways, but it was all to lead men to repent. 
One case had occurred which was perhaps unex- 
pected to them. He himself was the case. They 
had preached with an energy and activity which 
had aroused him to fresh zeal for the future. He 
felt his own weakness. The command was for the 
disciples to go by twos. He had the promise of a 
companion, and he wanted to say that in future 
with Mousie by his side he should go forth to 
preach by word of mouth and active work to all 
men as never before. 

The girls fairly screamed with excitement, and 
hugged the coloring, blushing Mousie, till she 
called for quarter, and Jessie Smith, still struggling 
with a refractory lock, called out : “ Girls, we are 
just girls and can’t cheer. But there’s one thing I 
will say : I don’t think I ever passed so happy a 
winter in my life. I never knew before what the 
Bible meant, and I never felt so sure that I was one 
of the disciples as I do now. It seems so real. I 
almost see them sent out just as we went, — only 
I suppose their surroundings were different. But 
don’t let our club die, girls. Bather let us multiply 
and increase, and above all don’t let us forget to 
preach this summer wherever we may be.” 


THEY WENT AND PREACHED. 


97 


\ 


The club separated. They still preach. Nearly 
all go with other companions now. That gray- 
haired lady, who never spoke a word in public, is 
one ; that sweet, bright-faced woman in the cor- 
ner is another. You all know them. They preach 
every day that you and I may repent and walk in 
God^s Way. 


7 



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Let Him Deny Himself. 


"D UMP, bump, bump ! rumbled the carts over 
' the pavement of the crowded streets, while 
between them the light carriages rattled along, skil- 
fully avoiding the wheels of those which were 
heavier. The day was sultry, and more than one 
teamster would mop his heated brow from time to 
time as he sat in the full glare of the sun. Along 
the sidewalks men were hurrying to and fro, — for all 
the world like little black ants, for they apparently 
knew not whither they were going. And overhead 
the sun shone down with such a fierce heat that 
here and there a man or woman would fall sun- 
struck, while the others continued their wild rush 
as if nothing had happened. 

But stop ! look, you hurrying people ! see what 
is coming here ! Down the crowded streets a gor- 
geous carriage drawn by two thoroughbreds came 
sweeping along. The driver was in splendid liv- 
ery ; by his side there sat a footman in top boots, 
and with silver buttons to his coat ; the horses’ 
harness was inlaid with silver; the carriage had 
upon it the silver coat-of-arms of the family to 


100 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


which it belonged; and inside, reclining among 
crimson cushions, was a grand lady. Her white 
hands were covered with diamonds. She had dia- 
mond earrings ; there was a splendid crimson para- 
sol to keep the sun from her eyes, and it had a 
gold handle ; she was dressed in crimson silk. 
“ My ! ” thought the people, as she went dashing 
by; “what a splendid turn-out!” 

With a jerk and a flourish the driver drew up 
the gallant horses at the door of a magnificent store, 
while the footman jumped out to purchase some 
jewels. The lady gave him his directions, and then 
sank back among the cushions. All was quiet for 
a minute, when slap, dash ! a runaway horse came 
galloping down the street ; and as luck would have 
it, the wagon, as it swayed to and fro, banged up 
against the lady’s splendid carriage, and then dashed 
off again. The thoroughbreds were scared, and 
were off like a whirlwind. Look to your reins 
now, sir driver, for those horses will not stop at a 
feeble pull 1 The driver strained and jerked, the 
lady screamed for help, the horses rushed on faster 
and faster, the carriage swung from side to side ; 
while the people on the sidewalk looked up open- 
mouthed to see the fun. 

The lady had raised herself from the cushions 
now. Grasping the side of the carriage to keep 
steady, she was looking to see whence help might 
come. The carriage swept onward, and no one 


LET HI5I DENY HIMSELF. 


101 


from among the crowds on the sidewalk moved a 
finger to help the grand lady. A few hundred 
yards ahead the street was being repaired, and sev- 
eral great stones had been left in the middle of the 
road by the workmen wlio liad gone in to dinner. 
A minute more, and she would be thrown ,out. 
“ Cowards ! ” she cried, “ will no one help me ? ” 
Oh the agony of that moment! 

Suddenly she saw a figure detach itself from the 
crowd a little way ahead. Here is help : it is a 
man running ; he is going to try to stop the horses. 
How they are up with him as he runs at the top 
of his speed, — there ! he snatches at the bridle. 
Heaven be praised ! he has not missed his hold. 
The horses run madly on ; but one of them begins 
to hold back, — he has too heavy a weight on his 
bridle for him to keep that pace long. The man is 
hurried along, now off his feet, now running again, 
now pulling back. At last he has succeeded. The 
horses slow up, and are at a standstill. The man 
is standing, tired and breathing hard, but straight 
as a reed and strong as a giant, still holding the 
bridle in his hand just as he had grasped it at 
first. 

Lady Charlotte stepped down from the carriage 
as quickly as she could, for she wished to run the 
risk of no further accident. Turning to the driver, 
she said, “ Drive home, Thomas ; and, do you hear, 
sell those horses immediately ! ” The gorgeous car- 


102 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


riage rolled away, and left her standing by the side 
of the man who had saved her. 

“Yon have risked your life to save mine this 
day,” said she ; “ you deserve a reward.” And tak- 
ing out a purse heavy with gold, she put it into 
his hand; but his fingers did not close upon it, 
and it fell upon the pavement. 

“ Ah ! ” said the man, coldly, “ so you consider 
my life worth just about one hundred gold pieces ? 
I value it more highly than that, I assure you.” 
Then he stooped down, picked up the purse, and 
returned it to her. “ You are kind,” he went on, 
“ but mistaken. I helped you, out of kindness ; 
do you repay me, not with gold, but with kind 
words.” 

Lady Charlotte did not reply, but stood looking 
at him in wonder, while he returned her gaze. It 
was a strange sight to see the fine lady in crimson 
silk standing up, tall and stately, face to face with 
the poor man dressed in honest homespun, but 
taller and statelier than herself. At last Lady 
Charlotte stammered out : “ What shall I do, 

then ? How can I repay you if you will not 
take money ? ” 

The man still looked at her earnestly, as if he 
could read her character like a book, and then said : 
“There is one thing I would ask of you. Come 
home and see my wife.” 

So the stately man in homespun and the stately 


LET HIM DENY HIMSELF. 


103 


lady in silk walked through the streets till they came 
to a neat little cottage. The man led the way, and 
Lady Charlotte followed him into the room where the 
mother of the family was making ready the dinner. 

Now, Lady Charlotte was a peculiar woman. She 
had all the money she wanted, a grand palace, 
thirty servants all in livery, and every comfort you 
can imagine, with many more you could never 
think of ; and yet she was not happy. She had 
heard that the virtuous were always happy ; so she 
hired a man of great reputation for virtue to look 
after her goodness, and he told her she must give 
the one hundredth part of her income to the church, 
and this she did ; but even this did not make her 
happy. She was totally at a loss what to do ; for 
she could not be happy, no matter how much she 
tried, and she could not feel as if she were really 
good, no matter how much her religious adviser 
tried. So she was miserable instead. 

When the strange man in homespun came into 
the room, his wife greeted him merrily, and all his 
children ran up and flung their arms round his 
neck ; but when they saw the grand lady coming, 
they shrank back a little abashed. The woman of 
the house came forward smiling. “ Oh, you have 
brought a visitor, George,” she said, and welcomed 
the new-comer. Lady Charlotte said nothing, but 
sank down on a chair in the corner of the room and 
merely watched what was going on. 


104 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


“ She is tired, Catherine,” said George ; " let her 
rest, and do you get our dinner ready.” 

So Lady Charlotte sat in. the corner and looked on, 
while Catherine prepared the dinner. George came 
and sat in a chair near her, and looked on too. 

Meanwhile Catherine bustled about and made 
her preparations. Her children were always at her 
heels, and were often very troublesome, as little 
children are apt to be, no matter how good their 
intentions ; but not one unkind look crossed her 
face, nor one unkind word her lips. Her smile was 
like a ray of sunshine ; it seemed to illumine the 
whole cottage and to make the room beautiful. 
Thus she was always wont to work for her family, 
and she never uttered a word of complaint, but 
often breathed her- thanks to God because he had 
been so good to her. On the day we have to do 
with, no matter how things went, no matter if the 
soup was spoiled or the bread burned, her coun- 
tenance maintained its calmness ; and when she re- 
ceived a word of approval from her husband or a 
caress from the children, her sweet smile was a 
pleasure to see. 

Lady Charlotte was bewildered. “ Is she happy ? ” 
she asked, amazed. 

“ Yes ; why not ? ” said George. 

“Well, — only, I am not happy, and I have 
jewels and servants and horses in plenty, and she 
has no comforts, and barely the necessities of life.” 


LET HIM DENY HIMSELF. 


105 


“ Yes,” said the strange man in homespun, look- 
ing fixedly at her ; “ but she lives for others, and 
you live for yourself.” 

Poor Lady Charlotte had never thought of that 
before, but she knew it was true. She was annoyed, 
and knew not what to say. At last she ventured 
to speak : “ Am I not good enough ? I have heard 
it said that the virtuous were always happy.” 

“ And so they are,” said George ; “ but to be vir- 
tuous one must be willing to do what is distasteful 
to him. You may be virtuous in some ways ; but 
you are not in the habit of doing what you dislike 
for the good of others, yet there lies the only true 
way to virtue and happiness. If you do not believe 
it, look at Catherine.” 

“ But what does Catherine do that she does not 
like ? ” asked Lady Charlotte, almost crying before 
.the only man who had ever dared to find fault with 
her. “ She likes to run about and cook, does she 
not ? ” 

Just watch her for a minute,” said George. 

Catherine had a basket into which she was put- 
ting some of the dinner. “ Here, Jack ! ” she said 
to her eldest son, “ take this to old Goody Brown ; 
she needs it more than we ! ” Jack seemed to 
have caught some of his mother’s joyful tempera- 
ment, for he seized the basket and ran out with a 
shout and a laugh upon his errand. George turned 
to Lady Charlotte and said : No one can abide 


106 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


Goody Brown, Catherine no more than the rest, yet 
there she is putting herself out for the old woman’s 
comfort. There is Jack too; he hates going on 
errands, yet he goes willingly to please his mother. 
Now, at this moment are not Jack and Catherine 
with their self-sacrifice happier than you with all 
your money and fine clothes ? ” 

Lady Charlotte bent her head and said nothing ; 
but George went on, — 

“ Yes, doing what one does not like for the good 
of other people is what makes true happiness. 
Why have I a healthy feeling of pleasure now ? 
Just because I troubled myself to risk my life for 
your sake, and yet I did not even know you.” 

Lady Charlotte rose. “ You have taught me 
well,” she said quietly ; “ I hope I have learned tlie 
lesson. I know now why you wanted me to see 
your wife. I think I can see now why she is 
happier than I.” So she kissed the children, and 
bidding George and Catherine farewell, took her 
way towards her grand palace. 

In the palace all was confusion. Every one had 
heard of the accident, and every one was afraid of be- 
ing scolded, for they feared their mistress when she 
was in a bad humor ; but Lady Charlotte did not 
speak to them. She walked straight up to her room, 
and threw herself down on the bed, crimson silk and 
all. Yes, it was all too true. She had never given 
herself trouble for the good of other people, — never. 


LET HIM DENY HIMSELF. 


107 


So she lay there for an hour ; and then she got 
up and changed her crimson silk for a sober black 
dress. She went downstairs, took two or three 
books from the parlor, and walked over to the part 
of the city where the poor people lived. She went 
straight to the house of a woman who had once 
been her servant, but who had grown old now, and 
for the whole afternoon read aloud to her. The 
poor woman was frightened at seeing her mistress 
when she first came in, but she soon became used 
to her presence. She was somewhat deaf, and 
Lady Charlotte almost had to shout to make her 
hear ; but she went on loyally until the sun sank 
down, and then she went back again to her palace. 
She had been troubled with want of sleep for some 
time ; but that night she slept the sleep of the 
just. And at last she was happy ; and what was 
more, she felt as if she had done something really 
good. 

The next day she sent away her religious ad- 
viser. She had no need of him now ; for by day, 
and sometimes by night, she began to give herself 
up to the poor people. She did not love to enter 
hovels, play with dirty children, and argue with 
drunken men; but when her heart failed her she 
thought of George, — how he had risked his life for 
her body, and had done something for her soul too, 
— and she remembered what he said was the only 
true road to happiness and virtue. So every day 


108 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


there was more sunshine on the faces of the poor 
people, and every day her face was more lighted up 
by the reliected glory. 

So time wore on, and the hours became days, 
and the days months, and the months years ; and 
Lady Charlotte worked on cheerfully, and used her 
money and her time and, more than all, herself, to 
make the poor people happy. She changed from 
a stately young lady to a stately middle-aged lady, 
and then to a stately old lady, and her hair grew to 
be white ; yet she toiled on, sacrificing herself for 
the good of other people. And every night she 
knelt down and thanked God that he had shown 
lier the way to happiness and virtue. 

One winter morning Lady Charlotte fell sick, 
and in a cool evening in spring she died. That 
was a cruel shock to the poor people of the neigh- 
borhood. There was real mourning at her funeral, 
and no happy face could be seen except that of 
Lady Charlotte as she lay back in placid death. 
So she was buried in the vault with her ancestors ; 
and one of the poor people, who was a poet, wrote 
some verses and put them on her tomb : — 

“ This tribute have I traced with saddened pen. 

And carved it deep in everlasting stone. 

While scorning self to aid her fellow-men 
She found the good of others was her own.” 


Born Again. 


B OTHERATION^ ! I feel as if I were going on 
errands all the time ! ” muttered Phil to him- 
self as he sauntered down the street with a flushed 
cheek and a frowning brow. “ I wonder why they 
don’t get an errand-boy ! No one would know I was 
a gentleman’s son ! ” And to tell the truth an aver- 
age spectator might have been a little doubtful ; for 
the boy had a defiant, untrustful air, that is not 
usually seen in one whose father is polite and 
thoughtful, and whose mother is kind and loving. 
But Phil did not think of his appearance, he did not 
heed the few curious passers-by who noticed that his 
face looked sullen and discontented ; but he stolidly 
pursued his course to the post-office, from which 
he was to bring home the morning mail. 

On the way home he made an effort to be more 
cheerful. He remembered that he was apt to be 
cross when he brought in the mail, and he made up 
his mind that this time he would keep his temper. 
“ That settles it,” said he, stamping his foot ; for if 
there was any one thing that Phil Mason prided 
himself upon, it was the strength of his will. He 


no 


SUKDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


walked straight into the parlor and handed his 
mother the letters in silence, and even smiled a 
little. 

Mrs. Mason examined them, looked up, and 
seeing the smile was encouraged to say in a joking 
way, “ Not one letter for me ? Oh you bad, bad 
hoy!’’ 

Phil’s face clouded over in a moment. “ It is n’t 
my fault, mother,” he grumbled ; “ you always lay 
the blame on me. I should think you ought to be 
thankful to have me bring the letters at all. None 
of the other fellows do.” 

Poor Mrs. Mason ! She had intended to joke with 
her son, and he had taken the joke as if she had 
struck him, “ Why, Phil ! ” she replied gently, 
“ you must not take things so hardly. I was only 
in fun. You are growing so cro.ss and touchy that 
no one can lay a linger on you for fear of rubbing 
you the- wrong way. You mu.st try to keep your 
temper better, my dear.” 

Phil’s eyes blazed with anger. I don’t see how 
you can expect anything of me I ” he cried. “ You 
are just nagging me all the time from morning till 
night. None of the other fellows have to go on er- 
rands. I think it ’s real downright mean 1 ” After 
which sublime effort of oratory he stalked away, 
full of offended dignity. 

Alas for Phil ! He marched upstairs, still digni- 
fied, walked into his room, shut the door with a 

p 


AS A LITTLE CHILD. 


Ill 


theatrical sweep, and then — why, what is this ? — 
threw himself down on the bed, and burst into 
tears. Ah, Phil, that is the best thing we have seen 
you do yet ! Those tears show that you love your 
mother, and are pained at what pains her; and 
after all, the outlook is not bad for any young fel- 
low of seventeen if he really loves his mother. So 
go on, Phil, old boy ! Cry to your heart’s content ; 
it will do you good. 

After that stormy interview Mrs. Mason left the 
parlor, and entered the library, where her husband 
sat reading the newspaper. She came in with a 
troubled air, and sat down beside him. “ Well, 
Henry,” she said, “ Phil has just worked himself 
into one of his angry fits again. We must see what 
is to be done witli him. I think it would do him 
good to go somewhere away from home. That 
would give his better nature a chance to assert it- 
self He has got into the habit of being overbear- 
ing to his own family, but I know he would be 
polite and kind among strangers. How would my 
brother’s house at Withersfield do ? ” Mr. Mason 
thought it over, and after a little more conversation 
they came to the conclusion that Phil should go to 
Withersfield and 'stay there at least a month. 

A hard boy to understand was Phil. As a child 
he had been bright and cheerful ; but he seemed to 
grow old prematurely, for even at the age of fifteen 
he had begun to grow discontented. He had noth- 


112 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


ing to complain of ; but he never could be satisfied. 
He took great pleasure in posing among liis com- 
panions as an atheist, though he never seemed to 
win any one’s regard by his disavowal of Christian- 
ity. He absolutely refused to go to church; nor 
did his father compel him to do so, for he thought 
that such unwilling attendance was worse than 
none at all ; and Phil was so noisy and disagreeable 
when he did go, that on the whole his father and 
mother were not very sorry to dispense with his 
company. So Phil lived on in his own way, selfish, 
disagreeable, and professing himself to be an atheist. 
He had lost the faith and confidence of childhood, 
and had not yet learned the wisdom of manhood ; 
but he had his good points, as we shall see. 

So it came about that a week after the events 
narrated above, Phil stepped down from the steam- 
car in which he had been travelling for several 
hours, upon the platform of Withers field Station. 
Before he had time to ask the way to his desti- 
nation, an old-fashioned carryall drove up to the 
platform, and his uncle, a hale old New England 
farmer, jumped out and grasped him by the hand. 
“ It does me good to see you, my boy ! ” said he, 
heartily. “ We have a warm welcome in store for 
you at home ; and you will soon learn to love 
Withersfield : we call it the prettiest town in Con- 
necticut. Jump in behind,” he added, as he held 
the horse. “ My little Alice is dying to see you.” 


AS A LITTLE CHILD. 


113 


So Phil did as he was bid, climbed into the car- 
riage, and shook hands with his little cousin. 

Alice Fellowes was a sweet little girl with golden 
hair and blue eyes, who looked as if she had just 
come down from heaven, and who almost made one 
sad for fear she might go back there again, she 
was so beautiful. Phil absolutely blushed to see 
her, for he could not help comparing this inno- 
cent little fairy with his discontented, angry, and 
wretched self. She was a little afraid of him at 
first ; but her shyness wore off, and they were soon 
engaged in an interesting conversation. Phil did 
not like most little girls ; but there was something 
about Alice that made the big fellow feel like a 
child again. He found himself talking very seri- 
ously to her about the two white hens which she 
was allowed to keep, although she was only eight 
years old. Once, indeed, when she asked him if he 
thought God took care of hens just as much as he 
did of little children, he remembered that he was a 
professed atheist ; but he did not like to admit it 
just now, so he evaded the question by speaking of 
something else, and the conversation went on. 

Mrs. Fellowes gave Phil a hearty welcome, and 
before the end of the week he was just as much at 
home as if he were in his own house. But some- 
how he did not behave as he used to when he 
lived with his father and mother. He was seldom 
overbearing ; and whenever he was rude or insolent 
8 


114 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


to the slightest degree, the approach or even the 
mention of Alice was enough to bring him back to 
politeness. A great friendship had sprung up be- 
tween Phil and his little cousin, and they were 
exchanging commodities. Alice was giving to Phil 
some of her simplicity, — yes, and a little of her 
childlike belief in her Father in heaven ; and Phil 
gave her — a poor exchange, in truth — some of 
his knowledge of men and things. He was not able 
to give her any of his scepticism, nor did he try. 

One evening Phil and Alice were sitting together 
near the fire in the parlor. It was snowing almost 
in sheets outside ; it seemed as if the sky would 
fall. Mrs. Fellowes had been away all day at the 
church doing some sewing for poor people. Phil 
had agreed to bring her home at eight o’clock, and 
he had promised Alice that she should go with him. 
The snow was already very deep ; but he still had 
enough of his old self about him to say, “ What I 
have promised, that will I perform. I will carry 
her in my arms if need be.” Come, Alice ! ” And 
Alice, who would have followed him into the Val- 
ley of the Shadow of Death, if he had asked it of 
her, put on her things, and out into the snow they 
went. 

Phil took Alice’s hand in his, and they began the 
journey, Alice showing him the shortest way ; for he 
had not been to church yet, and she knew the coun- 
try much better than he. For a few hundred yards 


AS A LITTLE CHILD. 


115 


a path had beeu shovelled, and at first they got on 
very well ; but they soon came to the deeper snow, 
and here little Alice’s strength began to fail. She 
said nothing; but Phil felt her hanging back a 
little, and turned around. 

“ Are you tired, Alice ? ” he asked kindly. ■ 

“I’m afraid I am, just a little,” said Alice, tim- 
idly ; “ but no matter, — I can go along.” And to 
show her strength she tried to run ahead ; but she 
tripped and fell down into the soft snow. 

“ My poor little girl ! ” said Phil ; and lifting her 
up in his strong arms he carried her high above the 
snow, and pushed on as fast as he could. 

Alice was quite happy now. With her head on 
the shoulder of her protector, she began to sink 
into a quiet slumber. Phil pressed on vigorously ; 
but he grew tired. He came to a place where the 
road divided into two. He could not bear to wake 
Alice. He thought he knew the way; so taking 
the road to the right, he walked on stoutly. But 
a child of eight is a heavy burden for a boy of 
seventeen, and try as he would, he began to make 
but slow progress. He would have turned back; 
but he thought they were nearer to the church than 
to the house. Alice was still dozing on his shoul- 
der. He looked down on her sweet face, — when 
suddenly he sank into a drift of deep snow that al- 
most came up to his chest. He struggled out, and 
staggered on, only to fall into a deeper drift. Again 


116 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


he struggled out ; but his knees gave way from 
sheer exhaustion. Dizziness came upon him ; he 
was forced to sit down. “ Alice ! ” he said. The 
child smiled, but did not open her eyes. He 
stooped and kissed the dear face. “ Alice, darling,” 
said the rough boy, tenderly, ‘‘ I can go no farther ; 
I think we must have lost the way.” 

Alice roused herself and looked about her, but 
there was not the slightest touch of fear in her face. 
“ Forgive me, Alice,” cried poor Phil, piteously. “ I 
ought not to have brought you here. Forgive me ! 
Oh, we are alone in the snow ! How can I save 
you ? What shall we do ? ” 

Alice looked seriously at him. “ I don’t see what 
there is to do but pray,” said she. Phil’s atheism 
forsook him, once for all. “Well, pray then,” said 
he ; “ pray for yourself, and for me too. I cannot.” 

So Alice took his hand to keep her courage up, 
and kneeling down in the snow she said : “ Dear 
Father, Phil and I are lost in the snow. I wish you 
would help us some way. But if it is n’t right, I 
don’t ask you to do it. Only, I am very cold, and 
Phil feels badly. Help him anyw^ay, dear Father, 
and save him from this fearful snow. And if Phil 
and I die, please let us go to heaven. Amen.” 

Then the two lost children sat very still for a 
while. Phil would have made some effort to escape ; 
but a strange torpor had taken possession of his 
limbs, a^d he could not move. He could only just 


AS A LITTLE CHILD. 


117 


stir enough to take off his overcoat and put it over 
Alice, who had again fall^' asleep. And then his 
head began to nod, and nod, and — No ! he would 
not go to sleep ! He did not care for himself, but 
for Alice’s sake he would keep a lookout. He tried 
to rise, but his limbs were numb. Ugh! how fast 
the snow came down, and he was so cold without 
an overcoat, — so cold, so co — Bah 1 there, he was 
going to sleep again, — to sleep, sleep, sleep, slee — 
Hark 1 there is a noise, — men calling to each other ; 
now for an effort ! “ Help, help, hollo ! ” shouted 
Phil, with almost a dying exertion, like Roland at 
Roncesvalles. “Hollo! hollo! holl — ho — ” and 
he was fast asleep. 

Ten minutes afterwards they were found. Mr. 
Fellowes had come in soon after they had left the 
house, had heard of Alice’s departure, and had fol- 
lowed them with the two hired men and a lantern. 
He would have come upon them before ; but Phil 
had taken the wrong road in his haste to reach the 
church, and it was only his shouts that had saved 
him. Mr. Fellowes was wellnigh tired out; but the 
storm was beginning to abate, and with the help of 
the hired men he managed to get Phil and Alice 
safely home. 

Alice was put to bed immediately, and Phil a few 
minutes later. Mrs. Fellowes came in as he lay 
back with his head on the cool, soft pillows, and 
asked him how he was. 


118 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


“ I did wroDg,” said Phil ; “ I should not have 
taken her out. Please forgive me.” 

There, there, don’t worry yourself about it,” said 
kind Mrs. Fellowes, stroking his forehead; and a 
few minutes afterwards she left the room. 

But Phil called her back and said : “ Sit down a 
minute, won’t you, please ? I want to know if I 
can go to church next Sunday.” 

“ Surely, child, and I ’m right glad you want to,” 
said his aunt ; “ but I must not stay, for I want you 
to have a good long rest.” 

That night Phil tossed about for some time before 
he went to sleep. All his scepticism appeared to 
have left him, and he was a little child once more. 
Finally he began to doze ; but he seemed to be living 
over the day in his dreams, for his lips began to 
shape the prayer that Alice had made in the snow : 
“Dear Father, I wish you would help us some 
way ; but if it is n’t right, I don’t ask you to do it. 
Only, I am very cold, and Phil feels badly. Help 
him, dear Father — ” 

And with his Father’s name on his lips he fell 
asleep. 


Let Them Come. 


M ES. BEOWN was hastening to the children’s 
playroom, summoned by loud yells that 
proceeded from it, wlien she lieard something said 
which made the sounds cease at once. The speaker 
was her older daughter, Lavinia, aged nine, who 
exclaimed, “ Stop doing that, Ashburton, or you 
cannot belong to Louy’s kingdom ! ” 

Mrs. Brown went into the room. She found Ash- 
burton, abashed and repentant, standing by his little 
sister, scarcely more than a baby, who was still lying 
on the floor, where he had been pounding her. The 
baby’s screams had been hushed by the sudden 
silence and change that came over him at Lavinia’s 
warning. 

“ I will belong to her kingdom,” said Ashburton, 
still pouting, his fat little face all red, and his long 
curls in disorder over his eyes. He was a sturdy, 
strong child of seven, with petticoats, and bare legs, 
and stout little fists. 

“And who is Louy, and what is her kingdom ?” 
asked the mamma, as she stood in the doorway 


120 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


looking at the group, while prim Lavinia picked up 
the baby. 

“ Louy Langdon, mamma ; and it ’s the kingdom 
of heaven. She has it at her house.” 

“ She has it at her house ! ” repeated Mrs. Brown, 
but careful to repress a smile. 

Lavinia, who was a prosaic little girl, rather self- 
conscious, rather precise, willingly gave her mother 
all the information she had on the subject ; and 
Mrs. Brown, pleased and interested, proceeded to 
make further inquiries. 

Louy Langdon was an orphan. She lived in the 
neighborhood alone with her aunts, who were what 
are called excellent women. They had taken the 
child — their sister’s — on the death of its mother, 
to live with them, and had brought her up carefully 
and conscientiously, without neglecting her in any 
way, but without keeping her by them very con- 
stantly, as they were both greatly occupied with 
works of charity and self-improvement. Louy early 
learned to furnish her own entertainment, and to 
create a life for herself full of incident and interest ; 
for she w^as a child of ready imagination, and in- 
vesting the lesser objects about her, animate or in- 
animate, with all sorts of friendly attributes, she was 
content to pass much of her time with herself for 
a companion. 

In due course she began to go to a private school 
in the neighborhood, where, although somewhat odd 


SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN. 


121 


in her quiet ways, she became a great favorite, 
especially with the younger children. 

Mothers who for various reasons kept but little 
run of their families were vaguely aware that Louy 
Laugdon’s was the favorite resort of their children 
for spare afternoons. These parents were well 
satisfied that it should be so, as Louy’s house was 
in a quiet street safely approached, and as there 
were no dangerous walls or wells, dogs or naughty 
children about it. What was done at Louy’s few 
parents thought to inquire, nor did the children 
trouble themselves to explain. Xow, however, La- 
vinia readily answered her mother’s questions, and 
was glad to find attention. 

“ Louy says,” she explained, “ that children own 
the kingdom of heaven by rights, and it might as 
well be now as any other time. All that you have 
to do is to be good and not cross, and study your 
lessons, and keep trying to think of nice things to 
do for other people, and sell all your goods and give 
to the poor. Louy says we can’t do this very well, 
because we have not any goods that are really our 
own ; but we can give away candy, and not take the 
largest piece. Louy does not want big girls in it, 
because they would laugh ; and Ashburton does ^ 
not belong yet, because he is naughty, — but he is 
trying for it.” 

“ Louy let me come last Saturday,” said Ashbur- 
ton, with a great red under-lip pouting as he spoke. 


122 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


“Yes; but you know you snatched the scissors 
and knocked over the mucilage, so perhaps she will 
not let you again,” said Lavinia, sternly. 

Tears were threatening. Mrs. Brown said gently, 
“ Lavinia, is it not your part to be kind to your 
little brother ?” 

Lavinia’s somewhat arrogant manner changed at 
once, and she said quickly : “ Yes, Ashburton, I am 
pretty sure you can belong. Louy says it is well 
to have little brothers, for they are good practice in 
self-denial.” 

“Do you suppose I could come to Louy’s some 
day ? ” asked Mrs. Brown, who was growing more 
and more interested in the tale. 

“ I don’t know,” said Lavinia, hesitating ; “ she 
never has mothers, but of course she could not pre- 
vent. The next meeting is Wednesday, because 
dancing is Tuesday. We have them every day 
there is not anything else.” 

“ Very well,” said her mother. “ You need not 
say anything to Louy about my coming, for I do 
not want to frighten her, and perhaps I shall not 
be able to. Now I must go out to my Board of 
Missions.” 

Mrs. Brown took pains to ask the other mothers 
what they thought of Louy Langdon ; and meeting 
the school-teacher one day, she spoke of her, with- 
out repeating what she had heard. There was but 
one opinion about her, — that of praise for her nice 


SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN. 


123 


manners and quiet influence on younger children, 
especially from Miss Patternley, who said it was 
a comfort to have her in the school. Mrs. Brown 
resolved to go on Wednesday to see what ‘‘ the 
meeting ” was like. In the interval she thought it 
best to go and see the aunts of Louy, to whom she 
had been owing a visit for a long time. She ex- 
pressed to them her satisfaction in the acquaint- 
ance of the children, and a fear that hers might be 
troublesome coming so often to the house, as she 
understood they did. 

" Not at all,” said one of the aunts. “ We are glad 
to have Louy at home, and not running about the 
streets herself. You know, it happens very con- 
veniently that as this house was altered for my 
brother the doctor, there is a little side entrance 
to what was his office, and the stairs lead directly 
up over it to -Louy’s playroom. She has always had 
that room to play in, being at the end of the house, 
where the noise would not disturb anybody ; though, 
to be sure, she makes no noise, and there is nobody 
to disturb.” 

“The children all seem very fond of coming 
here.” 

. “ Yes,” said one aunt, “ and Louy likes to have 
them. So long as they are quiet and do not tear 
their clothes, we do not inquire what they are 
about.” 

“We seldom look in ourselves,” said the other 


124 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


aunt, “ for Louy takes care of the room herself, and 
we have observed that children like being left to 
themselves.” 

The aunts, if they had visited the playroom 
on Wednesday afternoon, might have been sur- 
prised by a large paper pinned outside the door at 
the head of the stairs, on which was marked in 
large letters outlined with pencil, and filled in with 
crimson lake and prussian blue, — 

KINGDOM OF HEAVEN. 

WALK IN. 

To the children who climbed the stairs there was 
nothing surprising, for they were used to it. 

Louy Langdon was a tall girl for her age, which 
was little more than eleven. She was always in 
mourning for some distant relation or other, and 
habitually wore a frock of black print with white 
figures, which hung straight along her slender shoul- 
ders and legs to a little below the knee, where black 
stockings joined it. Her dark hair was long and 
loose, and fell about her pale face, although it was 
always smooth and not tangled. Large dark eyes 
lighted her grave little countenance, and a smile 
helped- it also, for her expression was one of con- 
stant activity of thought; indeed, she was always 
busy planning occupation and amusement for her- 
self and others. 


SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN. 


125 


Louy stood in the middle of the room to re- 
ceive a new member who had never come before. 
Then she turned back to her chair, saying, “Now 
we will go on with our play. You see, these 
are our dolls, and I was just making you one, 
that you might have something to start with, and 
then you can go on with us. Did you bring some 
scissors ? ” 

The occupation was that of making paper-dolls, — 
now out of fashion, it is to be feared ; but Louy 
was an old-fashioned little girl, and passed mucli 
of her time at it. Her post was an antique secre- 
tary, with a desk full of little drawers and cubby- 
holes at the back, now occupied by paper-dolls of 
all sizes and sexes, leaning up against the walls of 
the pigeon-holes, while their wardrobes were scat- 
tered over the desk. Partly opened drawers revealed 
stores of colored papers, not of the most expensive 
kind, but chosen here and there from the back of a 
pamphlet, or the wrapper of a box of candy. The 
other children sat at tables less glorious, their dolls 
propped against books set up endiwse. On a large 
table in the middle of the room were paints, sau- 
cers, tumblers of water, a bottle of mucilage, and 
scissors. Here reigned Lavinia Brown, who was 
then engaged in painting the sash of a white party- 
dress pink for a very small paper-doll. 

“ You see,” explained Louy, “ we have the pat- 
terns, and I mark them round, and paint the faces. 


126 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


because I know how, and then everybody cuts out 
her own. We all have-^milies, and you can 
have as many in your family as you want, and 
make new ones, or you can make dresses for the 
old ones. I thought you would like this size,” she 
continued, — showing the shape she was marking 
out on cardboard, about two inches high, — be- 
cause it does not take so much paper as the big 
ones, for the dresses.” 

“ I have not got any paper,” said the little girl. 
“ I did not bring any.” 

Oh, we have all things in common,” remarked 
Louy ; “ that is the way the Apostles did. Except 
scissors,” she added ; it prevents quarrelling to 
have enough, and that, you know, we must not.” 

The dolls were rather crude, cut from patterns 
handed down, we should say, from generation to 
generation, with staring faces, far less beautiful 
than the wonderful printed, painted, glazed, and 
gilded specimens of paper-dolls that can be bought 
now in the shops. But somehow, since such splen- 
did creations can be bought, it is observed that the 
pleasure of playing with paper-dolls has gone out. 
It was making them that children used to like ; and 
this was an entertainment that Louy had now dis- 
covered anew. Many of her little friends had at 
home “ boughten ” paper-dolls, but these were never 
brought to join the vast community at Louy 
Langdon’s. 


SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN. 


127 


Louy, by long practice, had acquired a sort of 
skill in depicting the features of the dolls, and 
without any teaching had discovered the merits 
of wet washes in laying on her tints. There was 
a peculiar turn to the mouths, made by two dots 
of crimson lake in the corners, in which she was 
sometimes especially happy. At all events, the little 
society regarded her work as something marvellous, 
and no one else aspired to that difficult pinnacle 
of glory, — painting the faces of the countless 
dolls turned out in this manufactory. 

Other sports sometimes held the hour at Louy 
Langdon’s, but at present there was a perfect pas- 
sion for paper-dolls. At all events, it kept the lit- 
tle troop contented and quiet. Nine children were 
present that day, all so busy as to be nearly silent, 
cutting, pasting, and arranging their families. Lit- 
tle Ashburton Brown, with a very red face and very 
dull scissors, was entirely happy cutting out a gar- 
ment of common brown wrapping-paper, — the only 
material he was allowed to waste, being unskilled. 

By and by, when Louy had achieved the face of 
the doll she was making to her tolerable satisfac- 
tion, and being engaged on the easier work of 
“ marking round ” a dress for it, of yellowish paper 
cut from the margin of Scribner’s Magazine,” 
found herself equal to talking, she said, “ I have 
been thinking, Lavinia, that we are rather too selfish 
in our kingdom.” 


128 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


Lavinia Brown was Louy’s chief counsellor, — 
more from the necessity of suitable age than from 
any real qualifications to the office, for Lavinia’s dis- 
position was as different as possible to Louy’s dreamy 
imaginative nature. She never could have origi- 
nated the theories, or for herself have evolved the 
ideas that came readily into Louy’s head ; but she 
followed sturdily, and sometimes with a sort of stu- 
pid good sense checked flights too fanciful. 

"'I. don’t know that,” she said now. ‘'You let 
every one come in that minds the rules, and helps 
everybody, and denies themselves.” 

“ Herself” corrected Louy. “ I know that ; but 
look, for instance, at these dolls ! We are generous 
among ourselves, but we do not give them out. I 
think, perhaps, we ought to give all our dolls to the 
poor.” 

“ Let ’s ! ” cried two or three ardent followers. 

“ The trouble is,” continued Louy, “ two things : 
I do not feel sure the poor would like them, and 
besides we do not* know any poor.” 

This was quite true. The town and the part of 
it in which all these lucky children lived was pros- 
perous and comfortable. Scarcely in their lives 
had they had any occasion to know what actual 
poverty, squalor, and suffering meant. 

“ We might do them up in a great bundle and 
send them to the heathen,” suggested one little girl 
who had an uncle in India. 


SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN. 


129 


“ I don’t believe the heathen would like them. 
Besides, they are not very pretty,” said Louy, look- 
ing doubtfully at her own work. 

“ Oh, Louy ! ” exclaimed everybody, in dismay. 

At this moment there was a tap at the door. 

On her way through the street, Mrs. Brown had 
joined Miss Patternley, the nice school-teacher of 
all these children. 

“ I was going,” she said, to Louy Langdon’s. 
The children often meet at her house, and have 
asked me to come too ; and I know it will please 
Louy, although she is too modest to give invita- 
tions.” 

“Then you do not think it will be an intrusion? ” 
said Mrs. Brown. 

“ Not at all,” replied the other. “ There is noth- 
ing mysterious about Louy, only a certain reserve.” 

It was evident that they were welcome, from the 
bright smile wuth which Louy greeted them as she 
came herself to open the door. “ Come in ! ” she 
said ; “ we never had two grown people before ! ” 
And then she looked about for “two grown-up 
chairs” for them to sit in. 

Ashburton ran, to show his doll to his mother, 
while the other children clustered around Miss Pat- 
ternley, to talk to her about their work. 

“ Only think ! ” said one of them. “ Louy does 
not think them pretty enough to give to the 
poor.” 


130 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


Louy hastened to unfold more fully her difficulty, 
and then was led on, with the help of the others, 
to explain her “ kingdom of heaven,” to their nice 
teacher and to Mrs. Brown, with perfect simplicity 
and directness. 

‘‘ You see, ma’am,” she said, “ when I heard you 
read, and everybody else, ^ Suffer little children to 
come unto me, for theirs is the kingdom of 
heaven,’ I thought what a pity we should not live 
in it now, and make it here for ourselves right now. 
Because heaven means to be happy, does it not, 
Miss Patternley ? And children are happy when 
they are busy and nice to each other, because they 
have not any time for bad feelings.” 

Miss Patternley kissed her, but said nothing. 
She did not wish to praise, or to check whatever 
else might be in her thought. 

“ I thought,” she went on, “ instead of obey- 
ing those puzzling commandments, we could al- 
ways mind what you tell us, and aunts, and,” she 
added in a low voice, those that have mothers, — 
mothers.” 

“ Quite right, my dear.” 

“ But now,” she continued, “ it seems as if we 
ought to do more than just enjoy ourselves here to- 
gether. How can we. Miss Patternley, ' take up the 
cross ’ ? ” 

“ My dear little girl,” said her teacher, drawing 
her very close, “ you have already done a great deal. 


SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN. 


131 


in urging these your little friends to be unselfish 
and obedient and happy. Suppose we all agree 
together, and you too, Mrs. Brown, to make the 
circle every day a little wider, if we can, and so 
help along dear Louy’s 

Kingdom of Heaven.” 




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Mercy, Mercy. 


A T that time it was my habit once a week to 
visit the “ Ketreat,” as we called the Asylum 
for the Insane. I had begun to do this when I had 
a classmate and near friend there. Afterwards I 
kept up the habit, having formed many intimacies 
among officers, nurses, and patients, which I should 
have been sorry to abandon. 

One afternoon my visit had been mostly upon 
Mrs. Harden, the wife of the resident physician. 
She threw herself heartily into her husband s work 
among the inmates ; and she made her daily visit, 
in one ward and another, such a sunbeam of light 
and joy that the men and women and children 
alike had something pleasant to say to her, and 
were at their very best when she was with them. 
On this particular day, however, we had not been 
talking of them or theirs, but of old friends far 
away. So it was not until just as I left that she 
said, “ Can you go with me to the garden ward ? ” 

I said that I had made all my visits, and only 
stopped to see her on my way home. But in an 
instant I saw that she was disappointed, and at 
once she told me why. 


134 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


It is a new case ; and oh, it is so hard ! Per- 
haps you read about it in the newspaper. No ? 
Well, she is a lady, — oh ! every inch a lady, — and 
indeed she had so much to live for, or one would 
have said so. And then — well, they say that her 
nerves were shocked by some accident she had 
on the railroad. I do not know how that was. It 
is certain that she was terribly depressed by the 
sudden death — in a fire at a Western hotel — of 
her twin sister. They had been all in all to each 
other, you know. Then she was shut up, without 
seeing any of her friends, for weeks, — why, for 
months. Indeed, I think, and George says, that the 
treatment was bad. And now, when they said 
she was well of her physical trouble, — it was 
some inflammation of the eyes, — she proves to be 
in this horrible condition of melancholia. She is 
the worst of sinners ; she has committed the un- 
pardonable sin, she says. She was made blind as 
a punishment for these sins, she thinks. And the 
only reason that she can now see, why she regains 
sight, is that that punishment was too little in the 
sight of an angry God. She never alludes to her 
sister. She will not hear of her family. She will 
perhaps not say anything to-day. But if she does 
speak, it is always this terrible story of God’s anger 
and of her own horrible sinfulness.” 

I could not resist dear Mrs. Marden’s eager, wist- 
ful appeal, and I went with her to the poor lady’s 


HAVE MERCY ON ME. 


135 


pretty room. Pretty it was, as Mrs. Marden’s care 
had known how to make it. The windows were 
open to the garden, and climbing roses grew over 
tall frames in front of them. There was a little 
piazza, where, if one chose, he might go and 
look out upon the river and prospect beyond. I 
remember that that day there were some birds hop- 
ping about on the piazza, picking at crumbs which 
Mrs. Marden told me she had left there in the 
morning. A humming-bird was poking his bill 
into a scarlet bean, which ran up by the window- 
side. Everything spoke of gladness and cheerful- 
ness, excepting the one wretched lady, who lay 
back on a long extended chair. Her back was 
turned from the window, her eyes were closed, and 
with a nervous clutch her hands grasped the two 
arms of the chair. 

Mrs. Marden introduced me to the poor woman, 
but she did not even look at me in reply. Indeed, 
she said nothing all the time that I was there. 
Occasionally I would hear a stifled groan, as if she 
were under a surgeon’s knife, and pain would break 
forth. At first I spoke to her as if I did not ob- 
serve her silence. I spoke of the prospect, of the 
birds, of the Lady Lawrence roses ; but she would 
hot recognize my presence. Then I tried an art 
which I had known to succeed when people were 
resolved not to talk. I talked to Mrs. Marden as 
if no one else were there. I told her one or two 


136 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


things about a journey I had been making to 
Yellowstone Park, I remember. But the poor 
lady made no sign ; and after a little we bade 
her good-by, and went our way. 

Once and again, after this, I visited her, and at 
first with no better success. True, she was not al- 
ways so silent. But, indeed, I had gained but little 
when I had roused her to talk, for her talk was 
always in this utter wretchedness winch Mrs. Mar- 
den had described to me. She had at the end of 
her tongue every word — I do not say of penitence, 
but of self-abasement — which prophet or pofet has 
invented. She was “ chief of sinners ; ” she was “ in 
the deepest depth ; ” she was in the “ valley of des- 
olation ; ” and she deserved, and more than de- 
served, all her suffering, she said, in language for 
which she tortured words that she might give it 
pathos and intensity. 

I carried her flowers. Mrs. Mardeu started a 
pretty aquarium in her room. I would read to hery 
but she would not listen. I took care that the 
most attractive French and German magazines 
should be on her table, for I knew that she was 
fond of the literature of France and Germany. We 
tried to interest her in some new studies of em- 
broidery. We sent to her home for her easel and 
her boxes of colors, but she would pay no atten- 
tion to any of these things. She would sit, with 
her back to the window, sometimes silent for days ; 


HAVE MERCY ON ME. 


137 


but if she spoke, it was to revile herself as the deep- 
est dyed sinner of all sinners. 

I count it, then, as an inspiration of God’s present 
love that one day, as I went to see her, I was led 
to call on my dear friend Mabel Eothwell, who then 
sang as the contralto in our village choir. I told 
her I was going to the Eetreat. I told her simply 
that I was going to see a lady who was wretchedly 
sad. I said that probably she would not say one 
word to either of us, but that all the more I wished 
Mabel would come, so that we might talk to each 
other. Why, yes,” said the dear girl, with her 
sunny, kind smile ; and I can sing to her. Here 
is a song which will make her cry perhaps. It 
made me cry when I tried it ; but I was the better 
for my crying.” So she gathered up a roll of music, 
and we went together. I sent up our cards, as we 
always did. There was never any answer, and we 
had to go in, as if she were dead ; but still we kept 
up that form. 

I introduced Mabel to Mrs. Newton, and she 
received the same recognition she would have re- 
ceived had I introduced her to the Sphinx. She 
spoke in her kindly, hearty way to the poor lady ; 
but she, in turn, did not even groan. I took Mabel 
to the window, and pointed out to her the glory of 
the colored leaves in the valley and beyond. In- 
deed, that day was so beautiful that it would be hard 
to think of anything but God’s bounty and love. 


138 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


But, all the same, our poor, sad friend sat with 
her back to the window, and spoke no word. 

It was after a little, when we had been talking 
as if we were two visitors waiting for our host to 
come downstairs, that I said to Mabel, “ See what 
a beautiful piano Mrs. Newton has ! I know 
she will let you try it.” The piano had been 
opened ; it was opened every morning. But Mrs. 
Newton never touched it, though, as we knew, she 
was an accomplished musician. 

With perfect sympathy Mabel played, not some- 
thing bright and joyous, such as her own temper 
would have suggested, or indeed the glory of the 
day, but a pathetic, tender strain, — perhaps Schu- 
bert, perhaps Chopin : I never asked, nor knew, — 
but something so sad or so plaintive that it must 
have been in accord with the poor, sad lady’s mood. 
I suppose — I do not know — that in a moment of 
tenderness, as she listened to the music, she went 
out from herself for the first time. Mabel went on 
in the same way. One quiet, tender piece followed 
another, — sympathy, gentle love, but always a 
strain of sadness. Whoever wrote such music, and 
she who rendered it, knew, as we knew who listened, 
that this world is not all a holiday world of fire- 
works and festival. It was then that all of a sud- 
den (to my surprise certainly, and, I think, to poor 
Mrs. Newton’s) without a word the girl changed her 
method, — changed the whole key and tone of her 


HAVE MERCY OX ME. 


139 


performance, — and we heard half-a-dozen bars of 
an inspiring march. We almost saw an exultant 
procession moving along before us. And then the 
girl began to sing, — 

“ Blind Bartimeus at the gates 
Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 

He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath 
Say, ‘ It is Christ of Nazareth ! ’ 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

Ikirjaov fxe ! ” 

Here the first verse of the poem ends in the book. 
But the girl sang, first, the Greek words, with an 
eager demand for sympathy, and then translated 
them, still singing, as if her Saviour were before 
her, — 

“ Dear Lord, have mercy upon me! ” 

I dared not look upon Mrs. Newton. Nay, I am 
not even sure that I thought to look, or wanted to 
look. It was almost as if I were at the gate of 
Jericho myself. Over the piano was an exquisite 
head of Jesus, — Jesus crowned with thorns, as it 
happened. I remember I was looking at that, and 
my eyes were full of tears, as she sang, — 

‘‘ The thronging multitudes increase ; 

Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace 1 
But still, above the noisy crowd, 

The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud ; 

Until they say, ‘ He calleth thee ! * 

©apcret, (ycipai, (^com ae 1 ” 


140 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


And again she translated, — and you would have 
thought her speaking to the beggar in an infinite 
tenderness, — “ Be bold, stand up, — he calleth 
thee 1 ” 

I am quite sure that poor Mrs. Newton accepted 
the words as the word of a true disciple to her. 
“ Be bold, stand up, — he calleth thee ! ” This is 
certain, that she did stand up, — the first time it was 
that I had ever seen her standing, — and walked half 
across the room, turned and looked upon Mabel with 
an eager inquiry. 

The girl paid her not the least attention, but went 
on, — 

“ Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd, ‘ What wilt thou at my hands ? ^ 

And he replies, ‘ Oh, give me light ! 

Eabbi, restore the blind man’s sight.’ 

And Jesus answers, "Ynayt' 

‘H TTiVny (Tov aeacoKe ere ! — 

‘ Depart : thy faith hath saved thee ! ’ ” 

She did not sing the last verse of Mr. Long- 
fellow’s poem. She played a little triumphant 
strain, which introduced the march again ; then 
we seemed to hear the beggar’s cry, though there 
were no words ; and then — I do not know whether 
she improvised the close, or remembered it in some 
tender strain of Mendelssohn’s — then came the 
exquisite relief, in which we heard Him say again. 
“ Thy faith hath saved thee, — go in peace.” 


HAVE MERCY ON ME. 


141 


Only for an instant we were all still. Then Mrs. 
Newton crossed to Mabel, and kissed her, and said 
to her, “ Do you think he says that to me ? ” 

And Mabel, with the courage of a child of God, 
said, “ He says it to you, if you say, ‘ Lord, have 
mercy on me ! ’ ” 

“ If I say it ! ” cried the poor woman ; “ what 
else can I say ? Lord, have mercy on me ! Lord, 
I believe ; help thou mine unbelief.” 

And Mabel folded her arms around her and 
kissed her. 

For me, I walked out of the room. I saw that 
Mabel was the true apostle, and that the great 
miracle was repeating itself again. His voice 
spoke as plainly after nineteen centuries as it 
spoke to the poor blind man by the gate of Jericho. 
I went on to make my other visits, spending an 
liour in one ward and another. But I need not say 
that all the time my heart was with those two, and 
that I was thinking again of that tender strain in 
which the beggar sang, “ Lord, have mercy upon 
me ! ” So full of the thought was I, that I was not 
in the least surprised when, as I came into the hall 
where my last visit was to be made, I saw Mrs. 
Newton herself, as if indeed she had been another 
visitor from the village, holding the hand of a poor 
sad little girl who was one of our latest arrivals, 
talking to her as her mother might have talked to 
her, petting her and kissing her ; and as T passed 


142 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


them, though I tried not to interrupt, I could hear 
her say, “ Dear child, he loves you ; and it vas be- 
cause he loved you and such as you, that he lived 
and died.” 

From that moment we heard no more of hei- 
“ exceeding sinfulness ” and of “ the anger of God.” 
From that moment, during the few weeks that she 
stayed with us, she was the messenger of tender- 
ness and light and sympathy in all that household. 
Her pretty room was glad, not for herself, but for 
the other patients ; and her days were spent mostly 
with the younger girls who came to the Eetreat, in 
making them glad and hopeful. When she went 
home, she went to carry light and joy with her to 
all her household. And of this miracle the secret 
was that she heard the spoken word, and almost 
thought she saw the face of the Saviour, who taught 
her of God’s forgiveness and begged her to enter 
into the joy of the Lord. 

She had from her heart cried out, “ 0 Lord, have 
mercy upon me ! ” and she found, as she cried, that 
her God was more than ready to answer. 


Where Shall We Go? 


T WO of the Harden children went to evening 
meeting with their father and mother. They 
had never been at church in the evening before ; 
but as this time there was to be a missionary meet- 
ing, Mr. and Mrs. Harden thought that Matty and 
Tom had better go. Hone of the children knew 
much about missionaries, and all the oldest four 
wanted to hear about them. But Seth was not big 
enough to go, and Benny had to stay at home to 
keep him company and see that nothing happened 
to the twins. 

The next day both boys were anxious to know 
what had passed. But there were so many morn- 
ing jobs to be done that for an hour or two there 
was little time for talking. Matty had to dress the 
twins and help get breakfast, and Tom and Benny 
had to bring in wood and water, — the pump was 
a great way down the road, — and to do a great 
many errands for their father, because he was go- 
ing off after mackerel. As for Seth, who was only 
seven, he had torn his jacket, and he did not want 
to give his mother the trouble of mending it. So 
he withdrew into the loft alone, and sewed up the 


144 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


place in a lump, and did not finish it till just as 
the school-bell began to ring. So it was not till the 
four were hurrying along Main Street together that 
they could hear and tell about the Missionary Meet- 
ing. For their father and mother had only said, at 
breakfast, that Mr. Johnson’s discourse was a short 
one, and that they were partial to short discourses 
themselves. 

“Well,” said Matty, “it was something like meet- 
ing in the daytime, only better. We sang lots, — 
three or four times.” 

“ ‘ Greenland’s icy mountains,’ ” said Tom, who 
was a boy of few words. 

“And there were three ministers,” Matty went 
on ; “ and one told about the Indians, and two told 
about the heathen. One said the heathen were in 
Africa, and the other said they were at our gates.” 

“ ‘ The heathen in his blindness. Bows down to 
wood and stone,’ ” said Benny, wlio knew “ Green- 
land’s icy mountains” very well. 

“That means idols,” said Matty. “They had 
’em there to show.” 

“ Little ones,” said Tom. “ Fearful ugly.” 

“ Then they passed round the box,” said Matty. 
“ Father put in fifty cents. I ’d have liked to have 
put something in, but I spent the last money I had 
for my winter stockings. Tom put in five cents. 
They said they wanted everybody there to do some- 
thing for the heathen.” 


mSSIONARY SUNDAY. 


145 


“What were the heathen going to do with the 
money ? ” said Seth. 

“ I thought heathen did n’t have any clothes on, 
nor any shops,” said Benny. 

“ ’T was n’t for spending-money,” said Tom ; 
“’twas to make ’em Christians.” 

“You see,” said Matty, “’t would be awful not 
to be a Christian.” 

“I should like to make ’em Christians,” said 
Benny, — “every one. But heathen countries are 
ever so far off, and so are Indians, except that 
man that comes with baskets, and he ’s a praying 
Indian. I ’d like to go there myself when I’m 
grown up.” 

“ He said he wanted us children to do something 
now, right off,” said Matty. “ He said when you 
have your Christmas-trees, think how awful it is 
to be a heathen and not have any, — only nasty- 
looking idols, — and be wicked.” 

“He said there was heathen at our gates too,” 
said Tom. “ I never saw none.” 

“ If they were anywhere near,” said Matty, “ we 
might get ’em to be Christians somehow. We 
could fix ’em something nice for Christmas, and 
they might like it then. Sometimes they don’t, 
and then they kill the missionaries, — that is, those 
that go out to teach ’em.” 

“ Like to see ’em kill me ! ” said Benny. 

“ They ’re black,” said Tom ; “ horrid-looking ! ” 

xo 


146 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


‘'There are black people here,” said Benny, — 

“ those darky children that live over toward Lydda. 

I don’t know of any gates that way.” 

“ There ’s a gate to their house,” said Tom ; “ but 
it’s off the hinges, and I don’t believe he meant 
that.” 

“ Do you mean the Silvesters, those darkies that 
don’t come to school, or meeting, or nothing ? ” said 
Seth. “ Because they ’re heathens. I know it ; 
Cap’n Niles said so.” 

“ Why, he could n’t have meant that ! ” said 
Matty. 

“Yes,” said Benny, ‘‘I was there, — ’twas at the ' 
store ; and he said like this : Old Daddy Silvester 
was a good old fellow, but the young ones have all 
grown up perfect heathens.” 

“Then perhaps the minister did mean the Sil- 
vesters,” said Matty, “ and did n’t speak the name, 
so’s to be more polite.” 

“Would they kill us if we went there?” said 
Seth, feeling rather uneasy. 

“Couldn’t,” said Tom. “Hung for murder if 
they did.” 

“We can take tlie Testament,” said Benny, “and 
we ’ll begin right off. I’m not scared a bit. I don’t 
believe there ’s any of ’em bigger than Tom, and I 
guess we could knock most of ’em down easy.” 

“We’d better begin with a Christmas-tree, if we 
could,” said Matty. “I don’t think it’s a good 


MISSIONARY SUNDAY. 


147 


plan to knock ’em down. The Christians in the 
Bible didn’t; and if we did, they might think 
Christians were bad people.” 

“ The minister did n’t say anything about that, 
either,” said Tom. At this moment they reached 
the schoolhouse door, and their talk had to come 
to an end. 

They did not forget the tree, however, — for a 
tree they all agreed there should be, — but gave it 
a great deal of thought. They had a month to get 
it ready in. Matty thought that after it was given, 
and they knew the Silvesters better, it would be 
easier to settle what kind of missionary work they 
should do. They did not know how many Silves- 
ters there were, and Tom and Matty started one 
afternoon toward Lydda to find out. 

They did not know exactly how to go about it. 
Tom proposed going in at once and asking how 
many people lived there. But Matty thought that 
this might not be civil. Nobody went round ask- 
ing such questions, she said, except the census-man, 
and he had a great book and spectacles, and the 
Silvesters would know they were different. Tom 
then suggested their sitting down opposite the 
house to see how many people went in and out. 
Matty thought this would not do, either ; she was 
sure that the Hardens would not like it if some- 
body came and sat down on the wall opposite and 
stared at their house. So they walked on, feeling 


148 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


uncertain what to do, till they came to the top of a 
hill at the foot of which the Silvesters’ little house 
stood. They then stopped, feeling much more un- 
certain ; for somebody was swearing very loud in 
front of the house, and both the children had often 
been told never to listen to swearing. 

But mother did n’t mean the heathen, I don’t 
suppose,” said Tom. 

“ I did n’t know the heathen swore,” said Matty ; 
“ I thought they sang songs to their idols, and then 
the missionaries went right on — ” 

“And then they ate ’em up,” said Tom. “But 
come along; that makes no odds.” 

They went a few steps nearer. The swearing con- 
tinued, and they looked at each other doubtfully; 
they were not really afraid of being eaten up, but 
they were not sure if their mother would like them 
to go on. At this point they heard the noise of 
wheels behind them ; and turning round they saw 
an old friend of theirs, who was generally called 
Uncle Billy Seymour, driving along on a load of 
seaweed. 

“ Don’t stop here, children,” said he ; “ ’t ain’t 
pretty for little boys and girls to hear such talking 
as this. You go right home, and here’s some 
beechnuts I ’ve been keeping for you.” 

“But, Uncle Billy,” said Matty, “we want to 
fix a Christmas-tree for the Silvesters, and we don’t 
know how many childpeii there are.” 


MISSIONARY SUNDAY. 


149 


“ Dear, dear ! ” said Uncle Billy ; “ Christmas-trees ! 
The poor tilings much as ever know what Christmas 
is. They’re reg’lar heathens. Yes, make ’em a 
Christmas-tree if you like, and I ’ll give you some 
apples to put on it. I know how many there is in 
the family. There ’s Aunt Eose, — Granny tliey call 
her, — and then there ’s Eohert, and Sarah, — that ’s 
his wife, — and Bill, — he ’s her brother, — and Sam, 
— that ’s Eobert’s cousin — ” 

‘‘ I don’t know about the grown-up people,” said 
Matty, looking anxious at the length of this list; 
we ’d like to give presents to all the children.” 

“ Well, there ’s Blanche Jane,” said Uncle Billy, 
“and there’s James, and there’s the baby. There 
was two more ; but they died last winter, poor 
things ! ” 

“ Then Blanche Jane must be the little girl I ’ve 
seen,” said Matty ; “ not quite as big as me.” 

“Yes; and James is smaller yet, but he’s awful 
solid,” said Uncle Billy. “ Good-by, children ! I’ll 
have some nice apples for you, and Miss Seymour 
will make you some nut-cakes.” 

This set the children’s hearts at rest, and they 
gladly started homewards, discussing their plans as 
they went. They must have one nice present for 
each of the Silvester children ; and then, if possible, 
some smaller present for each of the grown-up peo- 
ple. Then everybody could have an apple and a 
nut-cake ; for they rightly counted on Uncle Billy’s 


150 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


generosity. But how were the presents to be got ? 
'Not one of our four friends had a cent of money, and 
they had no prospect of getting any at present. In 
summer it was not hard for them to earn a great 
many honest pennies, picking berries, and doing 
odd jobs for the boarders ; but now the boarders 
had all gone home, and there were no more berries 
to pick. And as they had to buy most of their own 
clothes for the winter, the money had all gone. 

“ Well,” said Matty, first let’s think of what we 
should do if we had heaps of money, and then we ’ll 
see if we can do it without. I should like to give 
Blanche Jane a doll. I don’t believe she has any.” 

“ You ’ve some old doll-babies, have n’t you,” 
said Tom, “and you don’t ever play with dolls 
now ? ” 

“ I ’m too big,” said Matty, “ and my dolls are all 
spoilt. The twins broke ’em. No, we’ll have to 
get one some other way. I could make a rag-baby. 
But the head don’t look good when I do that, — sort 
of flat ; I don’t have any luck marking faces. I f 
I only had a head now, a china one, I tbink I could 
do it. You can get ’em for fifteen cents or a quarter, 
ill the Harbor.” 

Tom received this information in mournful silence. 

“ Then,” said Matty, “ there ’s lots of things would 
be nice for James, — trumpets, and little wagons, 
and games in boxes ; and a scholar’s companion, 
with a pencil, and a slate-pencil, and rubber.” 


MISSIONARY SUNDAY. 


151 


“ That ’s no good,” said Tom. “ We can ’t get ’em, 
far ’s I see, — any of ’em.” 

“ Then there ’s the baby too,” said Matty ; 
“ ’ t would be nice to, give it a rattle.” 

Tom made no reply, and they walked on for some 
distance in silence. 

When they turned the corner into Main Street, 
they saw Benny and Seth advancing to meet them. 
They had been in the woods looking for a tree, and 
had found a very small hemlock which would be 
just the thing. 

“ Oh, well,” said Tom, still looking rather discour- 
aged, “ it ain’t just the green tree we want ! Folks 
have candles, and shiny danglers, and candy in bags, 
hanging up all over ’em. It ’s no good if you don’t.” 

Nobody liad anything to say about candles. But 
Benny had noticed, near the lobster-canning factory, 
some great heaps of shiny tin, cut into all sorts of 
queer shapes ; and lie thouglit that if they could 
borrow a pair of shears, they could make some lovely 
sparkling wreaths to hang over the tree. As for 
candy, everybody knew that Matty could make 
beautiful molasses candy; molasses is cheap, and 
the children were not without hope that some of 
them could run enough errands for Mr. Jacobs, the 
grocer in the Square, to persuade him to give them 
a gallon. SetK then said that he was very fond of 
corn-balls, and that he knew how to make them; 
their cousin who belonged to the Band had made 


152 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


some for their festival last summer, and had shown 
liim how. 

“ Yes, and pop-corn on strings ! ” said Benny. 

They always have that at the Sunday-school 
Christmas-trees, — some white and some pink ; 
lovely ! ” 

Matty was not sure about the pink kind ; but she 
did think that popping-corn might be got somehow. 
The children now felt rather comforted, as a tree 
with corn-balls on it, and strings of white pop-corn, 
and Matty’s candy, in or out of bags, and Uncle 
Billy’s apples, and Miss Seymour’s nut-cakes, and a 
beautiful shiny mist of tin shavings over all, is not 
to be despised by Christian or heathen. 

They told their mother about the plan — “ the * 
secret,” they called it — that evening. She said she 
would help them as much as she could, and that 
their father would cut down the tree for them and 
bring it over to Lydda, either on a sled or in the 
hand-cart he used to take lobsters about in ; also 
that there was a Testament they might take over, 
which had been hers before Mr. Harden gave her 
a new one at the time they were married. The 
children were very much pleased at this ; they 
knew very well that their mother had no money to 
give them, for now that Mr. Harden had given up 
his long winter voyages he had not a great deal of 
that. Matty should make the candy whenever she 
wanted, ]\Irs. Harden said ; but knowing the nature 


MISSIONARY SUNDAY. 


153 


of home-made molasses candy, she advised tliat this 
should be at the latest possible moment. 

While they were talking about their ])lans Almira 
Davis came in ; she was a cousin of theirs, and worked 
in the seine-factory. She was much taken by the 
idea of the tree, and being a very good-natured girl, 
offered to get some bits and scraps of new white net 
for them to make candy-bags of. The boys, being- 
used to the big meshes used for cod and mackerel, 
said the candy would fall out of them ; but Almira 
told them that if Matty made decently big pieces 
they would be in no danger of coming through the 
very fine meshes which she sometimes had to make. 
She was as good as her word, and sent them over 
some net by Benny the next week. It made veiy 
pretty bags, — so pretty that Matty felt she must 
have some nice ribbon to tie them with. She had 
one new piece of red ribbon, not very wide, which 
she had meant to make into a bow to wear pinned 
on her Sunday dress. She had another piece not 
so new, but which still could be worn. She had 
thought of tying the bags with that. But the moie 
slie looked at the two pieces the more she hated to 
give the worn piece to the Silvesters ; besides, it 
does not seem nice to tie up things to eat with old 
ribbon. She took her scissors, gave a little sigh, 
and began cutting the new ribbon in lengths for the 
bags. As she was doing it she heard a knock at 
the door of her little room ; she called it hers, 


154 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


though the twins slept with her there. They were 
ill bed now. 

The person outside knocked again. “ ’Sh ! ” said 
Matty. “ Oh, it ’s you, Tom ; come in ! ” He was 
the one brother she was willing to admit after the 
twins were in bed. 

Tom did not say anything at first. He put 
something shiny on the bureau, and turned to go 
out of the room. The thing on the bureau, was a 
half-dollar. 

Matty almost screamed in spite of the twins. She 
caught Tom by the hand, and prevented him from 
getting out. How could he have got anytliing so 
splendid ? We all know that in December few peo- 
ple want salt-water carried up to their boarding- 
houses, which had been one of Tom’s principal 
sources of income in summer ; it was Benny who 
liad agreed to run errands for ^Ir. Jacobs, and Seth 
who had taken another boy’s place selling “ Evening 
Visitors ” so as to get some popping-corn from him. 

“ Honestly come by,” was all Tom would say that 
night. But after the four had joyously walked to 
the Harbor to spend it, they accidentally found out. 
They had spent their money very discreetly : they 
had got a beautiful doll’s head with real hair for 
Blanche Jane, and a trumpet for James ; and though 
rattles were too high, they got a splendid white can- 
ton-flannel rabbit, with something that rattled inside, 
for the baby ; and there were five cents over. Seth, 


MISSIONARY SUNDAY. 


155 


with a thought of his own grandmother, suggested 
getting a pair of spectacles for Aunt Eose ; but the 
older ones knew that spectacles cost too much, and 
they decided to keep the five cents till the last mo- 
ment, to use it for whatever seemed most important 
then. This, by the way, turned out to be sticks 
of red and white candy. When they had got home, 
and were opening the bundles to show to their 
mother, they were too impatient to untie the hard 
knots and called for Tom’s knife. He had a splen- 
did knife ; it had five blades in it, and a thing to 
take stones out of a horse’s hoof, which he had not 
yet had occasion to use. A boarder had given it to 
him, and he always had it on hand. 

“ Have n’t got no knife,” said Tom, turning red. 

“ Lost it ! ” said Benny, with scorn. 

“I never !” replied Tom, going on picking out the 
knots. 

Matty knew he had not lost it. " Tom,” she 
whispered, “ did you trade it off ? ” 

Tom made no reply, but left the room as soon as 
possible. Seth, however, who had been forbidden 
before, now felt at liberty to tell his sister that 
Frank Mckerson had been wanting that knife for 
two months, and had kept offering Tom money for 
it ; and Tom knew ’t was worth lots more than half a 
dollar, and did n’t want to part with it for anything 
either, — for, as they all knew, he liked it better 
than anything he had, and was always making 


156 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


tilings with it. And he ’d kept it as long as he could, 
so as to make little notions for the tree ; but now 
Frank would n’t wait any longer. So had ended the 
first mercantile transaction of Tom’s life. He cer- 
tainly had not got much for his knife in one way, 
but I think he got a great deal in another. 

Everything now went on merrily. Mrs. Harden 
helped Matty to cut out the rag-baby ; and it was a 
beautiful one, with joints at the knees and elbows, 
which could bend both ways, and a slender waist, 
and little feet and hands ; and they stuffed it with 
bran Mr. Jacobs was kind enough to throw in, as he 
said, with the molasses. Sethy thought this a dan- 
gerous plan, and was relieved when the bran came 
home in a paper bundle, and the molasses in a stone 
jug. They had a glorious time popping the corn, 
and though the corn-balls were not quite as round 
as one might wish, there was more variety in them 
than if they had been. The men at the lobster fac- 
tory not only lent their shears, but contributed sev- 
eral large colored labels with pictures of lobsters on 
them, which served to make horns for the candy. 
Uncle Billy’s apples and Miss Seymour’s nut-cakes 
were all that could be desired ; all the children felt 
and stifled a little pang at the thought that they 
were not going to have any of them. And at last 
Christmas Eve came. Matty made the candy; it 
really did turn very respectably hard, and they all 
started off for Lydda. 


MISSIONARY SUNDAY. 


157 


As they had no candles for their tree, they 
thought it as well to start soon after dinner. Their 
father had tied the little tree on the sled, and 
dragged it along himself, two of the children on one 
side and two on^ the other. Benny and Seth had 
wanted to put the things on the tree before leaving 
home, but their father told them that they would 
be likely to fall off if they did. So each of the 
children carried a basket full of pretty things. Mrs. 
Harden had sent a pie, and that was fastened on 
the sled with the tree. 

When they came to the top of the hill where the 
Silvesters lived, they stopped by the roadside and 
arranged the tree. Though they had done this sev- 
eral times already, — the last time of all just before 
they left home, to show their mother, — they were 
more surprised than ever at seeing how very pretty 
it looked. Their father then took it in his arms and 
carried it carefully down the hill, which was for- 
tunately not very steep, and stopped before the 
Silvester house. 

Nobody was swearing there now. It w’as all 
quite still. 

The children asked their father what they should 
do. He told Sethy to go and knock ; and this he 
did. 

The door was opened by an old colored woman, 
in a white cap with ruffles such as Sethy had 
never seen. Behind her he could see two or three 


158 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


men. He felt rather frightened ; but he knew his 
father was close by, and there were not any idols 
in the part of the house he could see from the door. 
“ I wish you a merry Christmas,” said he. “We ’ve 
got a Christmas-tree for Blanche Jane and James 
and the baby.” 

At this the old woman, whom they afterward 
found was Aunt Kose, seemed to be very much 
pleased. She gave Sethy a kiss, and asked his 
father and the others very politely to come in. 
The men behind her were polite too, and wanted 
to help bring in the tree. Everybody seemed to 
be glad they had come ; and when the children 
had got into the room (the Silvesters had only one 
besides a loft), and when the tree was set up on the 
table in the middle, and when Blanche Jane and 
James and the baby found that each of them was 
to have a present, and that there were pop-corn and 
candy and apples and doughnuts for all, the party 
became a very merry one. Blanche Jane was so 
pleased with her new doll that she could not speak, 
and stood in the corner taking off its clothes and 
putting them on again and laughing to herself ; as 
for James, he walked round and round the Christ- 
mas-tree blowing the trumpet ; and the baby shook 
the white rabbit till tlie thing inside of it rattled 
again and again. All the Silvesters were so pleased 
looking at the children that they laughed ; and that 
made the Hardens laugh too. 


MISSIONARY SUNDAY. 


159 


Nothing so far had been said about becoming 
Christians, and Sethy thought the others had for- 
gotten it. His father was talking to Robert Sil- 
vester about getting a job of work at the Harbor, 
and Matty was playing with the baby, and Tom 
and Benny were listening to Bill, who was telling 
them something about a trap. This did not seem 
to Seth much like being missionaries, and he felt 
that he had better begin at once. He still had his 
mother’s Testament under his arm, and he went up 
to Aunt Rose. “ Would n’t you like to be a Chris- 
tian, ma’am ? ” said he. 

“ My dear,” said Aunt Rose, looking quite sad, 
“ I call myself a Christian, but I ’m a poor miser- 
able one.” 

“Well, wouldn’t you like to be one?” said 
Sethy, turning to the children’s mother, who sat by 
Aunt Rose’s side. 

Now, when poor Sarah Silvester heard this, some- 
thing made her begin to cry, but very softly, so 
that nobody but Seth and Aunt Rose could hear 
her. She told Seth that two of her little children 
were dead, and that the baby had been sick lately, 
and she had been afraid it would die too, and that 
they had had a great deal of trouble ; also that she 
was afraid she had not been a good woman. But 
now, she said, that somebody else cared for the 
children and wanted to make a Christmas for 
them, she should like to be a Christian herself, and 


160 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


she would too. Seth did not quite understand 
what Mrs. Silvester said, and perhaps the poor 
soul did not quite understand it herself. While 
she was still talking to him his father said it was 
time to go home, and the children’s first missionary 
expedition ended simply enough. 

But next Sunday, when all the Silvesters ap- 
peared both at church and Sunday-school, the little 
Hardens felt sure that the Christmas-tree had had 
something to do with it; and when Blanche Jane 
and James came to school on Monday, they felt 
surer still. I do not think the Silvesters found it 
very easy to be Christians, — few people do ; but 
they kept on trying, and it was the Christmas-tree 
which made them begin. 


My Coat. 


TT was a long time ago, and when I was hardly 
^ ten years old, that my father gave me the first 
mount I ever had. It was a young ass, all white, 
and much better bred than any of the other horses 
or donkeys. He was young, like me, and hardly 
more than a colt, though he was strong and quite 
up to a man’s weight. But no one had ever ridden 
him, and he had never carried any load. My father 
had good men in his stable, and I do not think any 
one had beaten the colt. I remember my father’s 
telling me how I was to feed him and take him to 
water, and curry and brush him, but that I must 
be careful never to beat him unless he really was 
lazy and deserved it. And he told me that al- 
though the colt was all mine, he did not want me 
to begin to ride him until after the feast of the 
Passover, because he wanted to help me to look 
forward to the feast and to look back to it. 

I was sorry not to be allowed to ride him then ; 
for we lived outside the city, and there were a 
great many places where I should have liked to 
ride. But the Passover was only about ten days 
11 


162 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


away ; so I promised, and I did not ride him till 
after the feast. 

But I took a great deal of pleasure in him. I 
took him to the well near the city wall every morn- 
ing and evening for water, and I had a comb of my 
own to curry him, and I kept him very white and 
clean. 

One day, when I had owned the colt only a day or 
two, it was near noon, and my father and brothers 
— I was the youngest of all — were sitting on the 
shady side of the court talking, — I liked to hear 
them talk ; but my colt was a new thing for me 
then, and I was doing something with him or for 
him all the time, so I led him up near them close 
by the arch out to the road and tethered him to a 
post. Then I sat down, and while I listened to 
them I set to making a sort of brush out of some 
clean straw I had found in the stable ; for I had 
been currying the colt, and I wanted to brush him 
off. My mother had given me some stout thread 
which she was spinning, and I set to tying the 
straw together. 

“ It is very wonderful,” said my father, slowly, 
and certainly there must be something in it. It 
seems as if no one could cure people who are so 
sick unless he was sent by Jehovah. But all the 
prophets who were sent by Jehovah were of our 
own people, and this one comes from Nazareth. Do 
you remember ? It is up in Galilee. 


PALM-SUNDAY. 


163 


Father/’ said Nathaniel, my eldest brother, 
“that is true. All the prophets have been from 
our own people, but it is very long since a prophet 
has come. Perhaps Jehovah is vexed at his peo- 
ple, and sends his prophet first to the Nazarenes.” 

“No,” said my father, “Jehovah has always sent 
his prophets to his own people.” 

Then my other brother Simeon spoke. He had 
never been strong and tall as Nathaniel was, and as 
I was growing to be, but he was bent over and had 
to use a crutch. He was very bright, though, and 
could always teach me my lesson better than the 
old scribe who came to hear it. 

Simeon said : “ Nathaniel, did you not tell me 
once that when you were a boy you knew a boy 
who lived in the city a little while, and who used 
to go up to the Temple and talk with the learned 
doctors of the law ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Nathaniel ; “ he was one of the 
best fellows I ever knew. He was kind and gentle 
with us, but he knew more than all the doctors 
did.” 

“ Was he older than you ? ” 

“ Yes, a year or two. He had yellow hair, and 
he could do all sorts of things.” 

“ How old would he be now ? ” 

“ Why, I am thirty, and he would be something 
over that.” 

“ Was he one of the Lord’s people ? ” 


164 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


“ Oh, yes ; he had not lived here in the city 
much, but he was of the royal house. His father 
was descended from King David.” 

“ Where did he go ? ” asked my father. 

“ They were poor,” said Nathaniel ; “ his father 
was a carpenter. It was a great pity, but he had 
work up in Nazareth somewhere, and they all went 
up there.” 

“ What was his name ? ” asked Simeon. 

" Jesus, the Son of Joseph.” 

'' Father,” said Simeon, “did you not hear that 
the prophet from Nazareth is a man not over thirty, 
— he has fair hair, and his name is Jesus ? ” 

My father did not speak for some time. Then he 
said, “ He must be a prophet, or he is the one who 
is to come.” And he stood up and walked up and 
down in thouglit, and we sat silent. 

Just then Manlius the centurion rode into the 
courtyard. AVe did not like the Eomans very 
much, but we had to be civil to- them ; and this 
Manlius was captain of the gate which we used 
into the city, and he had been kind to us, and once 
he had let my father through the gate after hours, 
when my aunt was sick in the city. 

“ Hollo, Benjamin ! ” he cried, to me as he rat- 
tled in, for his sword made a great clanking. Then 
he bowed ^to my father. 

“ Excuse me for not alighting,” said he ; “ but 
there’s a great crowd along the highway, two or 


PALM-SUNDAY. 


165 


three miles out, near the Mount of Olives, and I 
must keep an eye on them t)r they ’ll he in some 
mischief.” 

“ Will you not honor my poor house,” said my 
father, by taking a cup of wine ? ” 

“No, I thank you. I only just stopped in to ask 
if this ring were yours.” And he handed something 
shining to my father. 

“ Yes,” said my father, “ it is a ring that belonged 
to my father and my father’s father, hut I lost it 
several months ago. Where did you find it ? ” 

“ It ’s a curious thing,” said Manlius, “ but one 
of our men picked that up in the gateway that 
night after we let you in after the gate was closed. 
He was a drunken, good-for-nothing fellow, and 
a few days after he had found it — of course none 
of us knew he had it — he deserted. We chased 
round the city and country after him for a day or 
two ; but he was a disturbing element, and we 
did n’t look for him too closely. Well, yester- 
day he came back. I ’ve never seen such a 
change in any one. He said he had come to 
give himself up, — that he had been a pretty hard 
lot, but now he was walking in a new way. 
Then he gave me this ring, and asked me to give 
it back to you. He has n’t changed the stone, 
has he ? ” 

My father held the ring up to the sun and 
looked at it closely. “ No,’' said he, “ it is the 


166 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


same stone, and it is a very good stone. I 
hope you won’t punish him badly, for he could 
have had two or three talents for this stone 
anywhere.” 

“ Why,” said Manlius, of course we had to lock 
him up ; but he is so changed and has behaved so 
well about the stone, we shan’t keep him in long. 
This new way of his seems to be a good one. I 
hope he ’ll teach it to more of the men.” 

“ Where did he learn this way ? ” said Simeon. 

“ Why,” said Manlius, " as far as I could make 
out, he fell in with a sort of a prophet up in Naz- 
areth, a man named Jesus, who is half doctor and 
half teacher. He cures some people, and tells the 
rest to live pure and honest lives and take care of 
each other. They say he raised a girl from the dead ; 
I suppose that ’s not so. But if he makes the peo- 
ple walk in the way my man Quintus has taken, 
he ’s a great improvement over your sacred men 
here.” 

Simeon smiled, and my father turned the other 
way. 

Oh, no offence ! ” said Manlius. " You ’ll have a 
chance to judge for yourself in a little while, for they 
say it ’s Jesus that is bringing in that crowd yon- 
der.” And he turned his great horse and clattered 
out again. 

Oh ! ” cried Simeon, “ is he coming ? Help me 
up!” 


PALM-SUNDAY. 


167 


So I ran and helped him up, and he took his 
crutch and went to the archway where he could 
see into the road. But I stayed near my father. 

“ Nathaniel,” said he, “ this is surely a prophet ; 
and if he really is of the royal house, he may he 
more than a prophet.” 

“Yes,” said Nathaniel, “there are many of our 
people who would do well to follow in such a way.” 

Just then two men walked in through the arch.^ 
They were tall and sunburned, and were dressed in 
white. They bowed to us, but passed quickly by 
to where the colt was tethered, and one of them 
began to untie the rope. 

My father stepped forward. “ What are you do- 
ing ? ” said he. 

But the first man untied the colt as if he had not 
heard, and the other man turned and said, “The 
Lord hath need of him.” And they led it away. 

My father stood astonished, but I was frightened. 

May not I go too ? ” said I, for I wanted to see 
where they were taking him. 

“ Go, dear boy ! ” said my father, quietly ; and I 
ran after them, and passed Simeon as he stood 
bending on his crutch and leaning against the wall. 
I ran and ran, and soon caught up with them, and I 
walked beside the colt and patted him now and 
then. There were a great many people walking 
with us ; it seemed as if the whole city were coming 
out to meet Jesus. They were talking as they 


1G8 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


walked and ran. Some said he was Elias come 
again, and some that he was the Messiah come at 
last. Many thought he would drive the Eomans 
out and reign himself at Jerusalem, but no one had 
heard of any soldiers with him. Presently the 
crowd grew thicker, and at last we came to him. 

He was sitting by the side of the road, and they 
were all standing a little apart from him. 

The two men led the colt up to him, and he 
looked up and smiled. I don’t know why I did it, 
but all of a sudden I pulled off my cloak and threw 
it over the colt’s back. Then the Lord mounted the 
colt and began to ride toward the city, and we all 
followed. At first it was all silent, but little by 
little the people began to cheer, “ Hosanna to the 
son of David ! ” 

Then some one threw a palm-leaf in the road be- 
fore him, and then they threw more and more till 
they pulled whole branches from the trees ; and as 
we came nearer and there were fewer trees, they 
snatched off their cloaks and laid them for him 
to ride over ; and still they shouted louder, 
“Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the 
Lord ! ” 

As we came to our house I could see my father 
and Nathaniel spreading their cloaks in the road ; 
and as we reached it, poor Simeon struggled out, 
bending over his crutch. 

“ Touch me, touch me. Lord ! ” he cried. 


PALM-SUNDAY. 


169 


And Jesus rode toward him, and bent down and 
touched his forehead. And Simeon dropped his 
crutch, and stood up straight, and ran before him 
and spread his cloak in the way with the rest. 
And we all praised J ehovah, and shouted “ Hosanna 
in the highest ! Hosanna to the son of David ! 
Blessed is he who cometh in the name of the 
Lord!” 


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His Own. 


R upert and Annie Holland always learned 
texts on Sunday afternoons to repeat to their 
mother. When their little cousins were staying 
with them, they learned texts too, and they all used 
to stand up in a row before Mrs. Holland as she 
lay on the sofa, and repeat the texts in turn. The 
elder children used to learn hymns as well as texts ; 
but Annie and her cousin Milly were too small to 
manage more than one verse each, and their texts 
were very short ones. 

The text at the beginning of this story was Ru- 
pert’s. He repeated it without mistake. His mother 
asked him if he knew whom it meant. He said it 
meant our Saviour. 

And whom did it mean by ‘ his own who received 
him not ’ ? ” said their mother to Annie, who stood 
next in the class. Annie was not sure ; but her 
cousin Dorothy said it was the Jews who had not 
received our Lord, and had even put him to death. 

“ Remember,” said Mrs. Holland, “ it was n’t all 
the Jews. Our Lord was a Jew himself, and so 
were most of his friends.” 


172 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


“ I wish I ’d been there,” said Eupert, “ and I 
would n’t have let ’em do it, — that is, if I ’d been 
a man.” 

Do you suppose you would have known who 
our Lord was so much better than they did ? ” said 
Mrs. Holland. 

“ Why, of course I should have known who he 
wa.s,” said Eupert. 

All the children thought they would have known ; 
and perhaps the youngest ones would, for very little 
children are apt to know their friends. But bigger 
people are sometimes mistaken about that, just as 
the chief priests were. And Mrs. Holland told the 
children that the friends of Jesus — the people who 
tried to be like him and work for him — had often 
been received or been met in tlie way that he was. 

“ Now,” she said, “ which would you rather be, — 
friends of Jesus, and try hard to be like him, and 
sometimes have people hateful to you and unwill- 
ing to have you help them ; or, be some of the people 
who are unkind to the friends of Jesus ? ” 

The little children did not understand this very 
well ; so Mrs. Holland explained it to them. They 
said they had rather be friends of Jesus, even if 
people didn’t like them. 

“ But,” said Eupert, it ’s so silly of people not 
to know when people try to be good to them.” 

“ Yes,” said Dorothy, “ there can’t be many per- 
sons as stupid as that.” 


HIS OWN RECEIVED HIM NOT. 


173 


I know it ’s stupid,” said Mrs. Holland. “ But 
most of us are stupid in just that way ; and after 
you have finished the texts and hymns 1 ’ll tell you 
a story this text has reminded me of, about how once 
when I was a little girl I did n’t know my friends.” 

So, when the verses were all said, Mrs. Holland 
began this story : — 

“ When I was a little girl I lived for a while on a 
farm at Eastern Point. It was a place you would 
have liked, I know — ” 

“ I like farms,” said Annie. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Holland ; " and besides all the 
things that make you like a farm, there were all 
kinds of seaside things too. We lived very near 
the Bay, and there was a nice beach where we could 
wade and play in the sand and get shells ; and there 
were rocks where we could fish for dinners, and 
there were boats so that we could go out rowing, 
and there were pastures where we could go after 
berries.” 

“ What a splendid place ! ” said Dorothy ; “ I should 
have wanted to stay there all the time.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Holland ; “ but I wanted to go 
somewhere else very much, and unluckily that was 
just where we were forbidden to go alone. That 
was to the sea.” 

I thought you lived by the sea,” said Eupert. 

“We lived by the Bay,” said Mrs. Holland. 
“ When we spoke of the sea, we meant the ocean 


174 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


on the other side of the Point. And it was very 
natural that we wanted to go there, for it was a 
most beautiful place. There were very high cliffs, 
and tlie surf broke against them and dashed up to 
the tops of them sometimes, and you could look 
away off to sea and not see any land, and you knew 
that no land was there till you came to Spain.” 

“ Why would n’t they let you go there ? ” said 
Annie. 

“ Because it was such a dangerous place for chil- 
dren,” said her mother. “ There were great preci- 
pices and places where the deep water ran into the 
rocks in channels ; and if we had fallen in, the waves 
were often so strong that they would have dashed 
us to pieces on the rocks. My father said I could 
go there alone when I was thirteen years old, but 
not till then ; and at the time of my story I was 
only ten. Well, one afternoon in October I went 
out to play in the pastures. We were allowed to 
go as far as a ledge of rocks about half-way between 
our house and the sea, — we might climb all over 
those rocks, but we were not to go any farther. Be- 
yond that there were partly cranberry bogs and 
partly pastures. But there was plenty of room to 
play in without going over there. 

“That afternoon it was cold, like November; 
your aunt Minnie and your uncle Henry — that’s 
your papa, Milly — were very little children then, 
and before long they got tired of picking winter- 


HIS OWN RECEIVED HIM NOT. 


175 


green berries in their little pails. The bottoms of 
the pails were not covered when they said their 
hands were so cold that they wanted to go home. 

“ I did n’t want to go home at all ; I wanted to 
get more wintergreen berries, and I liked to be 
alone on the pastures. I took the children down 
to the stone wall, and helped them over it, and then 
watched them till they got to tlie fence of our yard 
and squeezed through the gap in it. Then I knew 
that they were all safe, and that I might stay out 
till it began to get dark. 

“After I had got about as many wintergreen 
berries as I ever did, — that is, half a cup full, — I 
climbed up on the ledge of rocks. All the afternoon 
I had been hearing the sound of the surf on the 
cliffs, — not splashing and dashing as the water did 
in the bay, but all one great, deep sound, just the 
same all the time. And when I had got to the top 
of the ledge I saw that on the other side of the pas- 
tures beyond me the waves were breaking all along 
the shore, higher than I ever had seen them, and 
the spray was flying high above the tops of Brace’s 
Cliffs. 

“ I kept going nearer and nearer till I had got to 
the farthest part of the ledge. Then it seemed as 
if I could n’t stop. What I ought to have done was 
to go back and get my father or my brother Eupert 
to take me over there. I don’t doubt one of them 
would have done it. But I never thought of that 


176 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


at all. I knew it was wrong to disobey, but I thought, 
‘ Now I won’t go on the cliffs ; I ’ll just go to the 
edge, so as to hear and see better.’ So I started 
off at a run across the pastures. I had the sense 
to keep to a sort of track there was, and not get into 
the bogs, which were plain enough, — very pretty 
they looked too, full of high bushes which were 
changing color, all red and brown and yellow ; but 
I knew they were full of water, and that I must n’t 
get in. They were wetter than usual, for it had 
been raining for several days ; and here and there 
the track I was following would be flooded, and I 
would have to take a side 'path, and make my way 
on stones and clumps wliere bushes were growing. 
I did n’t mind that, however, — there were just 
such places near home ; but I hurried, for I knew it 
was drawing near the end of the afternoon. After a 
while I took the beach for a little way at the Cove ; 
that was very heavy walking, for the tide was nearly 
high and there was no damp, hard sand for me to 
walk on, nothing but the soft sand which had come 
up in the winter storms. Then I took to the pas- 
tures again, and at last I came out at the top of 
Brace’s Cliffs. 

“ As soon as I got there I ran out to the edge 
and looked down ; but I did n’t have much time for 
that, for a big wave broke with a noise like thunder, 
and the spray dashed all over me. I was pretty 
wet, but I wanted to see more of it. The place 


HIS OWN RECEIVED HIM NOT. 


177 


where the wave broke was a good way below the 
top, and climbing down was easy enough for a 
child who was used to rocks and who had been 
there before. It was easy ; but it was a mad thing 
to do, for I might have been washed off at one 
point. But I got into a rather sheltered place, out 
of the wind, and there I stopped. Then something 
happened which was strange, and seemed to me 
stranger than it really was. It began to snow.” 

“ Why, it was n’t winter ! ” said Annie. 

“No; only early in October,” said her mother. 
“ But it was a real snow-flurry ; the air was full 
of it; and as these enormous, great waves broke 
just below me, and the spray flew up in the air, that 
froze too, — not much of it, but enough to look dif- 
ferent from the other flakes. The tide was rising 
all the time ; and though it was easy enough for me 
to get above high-water mark in the place where I 
was, I could only get back to the top of the cliffs 
by going the way I had come. And what with the 
driving snow, and the rising tide, and the wild noise 
of the surf, and the great waves breaking so very 
close, I began to be afraid to do that. Then I be- 
gan to feel cold too, — I was really pretty wet ; and 
it grew darker and darker. I tried once to go back 
the way I came ; but the spray and the snow, which 
melted as it fell, made the rocks very slippery, as 
you may suppose. I took off my shoes and stock- 
ings so as to be more sure-footed, and tried it once ; 

12 


178 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


but as I came near the most dangerous place, I was 
so nearly taken off by a big wave that I saw there 
was nothing for it but to go back to my shelter 
and wait for the tide. I suppose if I had gone on, 
I should certainly have been killed. 

“So I went back.* You may imagine it wasn’t 
very nice there. I found a perch above the highest 
tide-mark; but I felt rather uneasy, for I knew 
enough to think that the wind might bring the tide 
up higher still. It did n’t, however ; but I got wet- 
ter and wetter with the spray. I liad to sit there 
an hour, more or less ; it was nearly dark when I 
ventured out. But one reason why I stayed there 
so long was a very foolish one. What do you sup- 
pose it was ? ” 

“ Too stiff to move,” said Rupert. 

“ No, it was n’t tliat,” said his mother, “ though I 
really was stiff enough ; but I moved about as 
much as I could. No, it was because I heard a 
voice. My shelter was not far from the top of the 
cliffs ; and though the waves made such a noise, I 
did hear shouting from above. I could n’t hear who 
it was, but it frightened me very much. I thought 
it must be either Indians or pirates.” 

“ Was it ? ” said Milly. 

“ No, indeed,” said Mrs. Holland, “ and I was a 
very silly little girl to think it was either. How- 
ever, what frightened me most was to hear, or think 
I heard, my own name. I thought that that made 


HIS OWN RECEIVED HIM NOT. 


179 


it sure that tlie Indians and pirates were coming 
after me. That frightened me so much that I stayed 
in the same place till it was getting so dark tliat I 
did not dare to wait any longer before climbing up 
the rocks. The snow was over, and the tide had 
gone down, and I got up easily enough ; but I was 
dreadfully frightened for fear I should find the In- 
dians at the top. I think it was my bad conscience 
which frightened me so ; I was really more afraid 
of these Indians made up out of my own head, than 
I had been of the real danger of the surf and the 
cold. 

“ Well, as you may suppose, I found no Indians, 
nor pirates either, at the top of the cliffs. I set out 
toward home, and wished I had started earlier, for 
it was getting hard to make out the paths and 
tracks among the bushes. And for as little a girl 
as I was it ’s a serious thing even on the high ground, 
to get into the huckleberry thickets, all wet with 
melted snow, and have to make a path for yourself. 
However, I kept the general direction toward home 
pretty well, until, in happening to look toward the 
ledge of rocks, I could just make out the figures of 
two men standing against the sky. It was now so 
dark that I could hardly see them ; but they cer- 
tainly were men, for they moved. They were in 
just the place where the best of the sheep-paths 
crossed the ledge, and just on my way home. 

suppose, as I said, that it was my bad con- 


180 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


science that frightened me so, and also my being 
hungry and very much over-tired, and having 
taken cold. There was no real reason for my being 
afraid of these strangers, for there were no tramps * 
in those days, and all our neighbors were good and 
kind people. But as soon as I saw the men my one 
idea was to hide away from them. I now did not 
dare to follow the cart-track between the bogs, for 
I thought they would see me take it. I kept the 
coast-line beyond, thinking that I should find some 
other track or some causeway across the bogs far- 
ther on. 

“ I kept on and on ; it was dark, but the walking 
was easy enough on the pasture by the coast. The 
bog I was skirting was a very big one, and I had a 
long walk before I came to any road. When I did 
come to one, it seemed pretty good, and I turned 
into it. It was black night now, but there was a 
little moon which would come out occasionally to 
show me where I was going. When it went under 
the clouds, I could hardly see anything. 

‘‘ This road, like the other road, had plenty of wet 
places in it ; but I had to tramp through tliem now, 
for it was n’t light enough to climb along on stones 
and tufts as I had done, and besides I was so wet 
already that I did n’t mind getting wetter. But be- 
fore long I came to a place where I really hardly 
dared to go on. The road crossed a meadow ; and 
though it was so dark, I could see that the rains 


HIS OWN RECEIVED HIM NOT. 


181 


had changed it into a great pond. I could only 
judge how deep it was by a sound of water flowing 
down from it on one side in a sort of brook ; and 
that was so loud that I felt sure it was pretty 
deep. 

“ However, I was getting so desperate now that 
I think I should have tried wading it, had it not 
been for the moon’s coming out for a moment. It 
went in again, but I had time to see a man’s flgure 
half hidden by the bushes on the other side. He 
saw me too, I thought ; for he gave a great shout, 
like an Indian whoop. 

“ If I had been frightened before, I was much 
more so now. I was too frightened to thiidc what I 
was doing, and plunged into the high bushes on the 
right of the road, so as not to be seen. I struck a 
sheep-track which took me a little way ; but before 
I knew it there was n’t any more path, and I was 
getting deep into what they call an alder swamp. 
And though I had been in very hard places this 
afternoon, this alder swamp was the hardest of 
all : for the alder bushes grew high up above 
my head like trees, and close about me on all sides ; 
and I had to force my way through as if I were 
fighting with them ; and in a very few minutes I 
had lost my way entirely ; and it was wet under- 
foot, and soon the water became quite deep. And 
though I had come so near to being drowned that 
afternoon, I liked tlie splashing sea-water much 


182 


SUNDAY-SCPIOOL STOKIES. 


better than tliis cold, dark muddy water in the 
swamp, which came up to my knees now and might 
be deeper still. 

“ I still heard the shouting, and it came rather 
nearer ; but I always worked away from it. Then 
I saw something bright not very far off, and I 
worked away from tliat. Then I heard a shout 
again, in the direction I was taking, so that I was 
now between the light and the shouting. I made 
one more effort to get through the alders, but they 
were too strong for me and I fell down on my 
knees. I’ve always been grateful to that alder 
swamp for holding me as close and still as it did ; 
for I suppose if it liad n’t I might have wandered 
away, and died with cold before morning. At any 
rate, I could n’t stir now, and I began to cry. The 
light came close up to me. ‘ Annie ! ’ said my 
brother. 

“ It had been he all the time, — he and my 
father, though I was too frightened to know their 
voices; but Eupert had had the harder time of it, 
for he had insisted on going into the worst places 
after me, and when we got out of the alder swamp 
I could see that he looked as used up as I did my- 
self. When my father saw me, he did n’t scold me 
at all. He carried me home in his arms. I sup- 
pose he thought I had been punished enough. But 
my punishment was n’t over, for I had a fit of sick- 
ness after that. 


HIS OWN RECEIVED HIM NOT. 


183 


‘‘ They had missed me when it began to snow ; 
and as they knew I longed to go to the sea, and 
felt anxious about my getting on the rocks, Eupert 
went there first. Then he went for a lantern, and 
my father came back with him. 

“ So you see I thought the dearest friends I had 
in the world were my worst enemies, and I made 
them all the trouble that I could. They forgave 
me soon enough ; but I found it harder to forgive 
myself.” 


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L"Sta 









How to Fulfil It. 


ID you read, wife, in the newspaper yesterday. 



what an awful sick time they’re having 


down in Dryville ? ” asked John Stevens, coming 
in from the back porch, where he had been “ clean- 


ing up ” for dinner. 


“ No, I did n’t. Fact was, tlie butter did n’t come 
very well, and I was all upset. Did you say they 
were all sick down ter Dryville ? ” 

“ I should think they were, if what the papers 
sa}’’ is true. ’T ain’t a very big place, — Dryville 
ain’t, — and yet sometimes there ’s as many as ten 
dies in a day.” 

“You don’t say so ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Stevens, 
stopping right where she stood, with a steaming 
“ boiled dish ” in her hands. 

“The paper says,” continued John, “that the 
people that have got money to get away have just 
picked up and gone, but there’s lots of ’em that 
could n’t go, — people that did n’t have any money, 
and folks that didn’t dare leave their business. 
They can’t go now, for there ain’t any place that ’ll 
take ’em in, folks is so scared.” 


186 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


Now, is n’t that hard ? ” sympathetically inter- 
rupted Mrs. Stevens. She sat down in the big chair, 
unmindful of the dinner she had placed on the ta- 
ble, rocking back and forth with a misty look in her 
eyes and a little twitcliing about her mouth. 

“They do say there is n’t much to eat down there, 
and no folks to take care of the sick. The doctors 
are worked most to death. People up north are 
giving money, and doing what they can, but it 
don’t seem to stop the fever. I guess if they had 
a few such good nurses as you, Mirandy, they’d 
chirk up a hit.” 

John Stevens looked at his wife in a contented 
sort of fashion. He was n’t a man who read Emer- 
son or Browning, and he did n’t know much about 
“advanced ideas,” but he did think his wife was 
the best nurse and most thrifty housekeeper in all 
the village of Newton. He loved her dearly; but 
it is doubtful if he ever said so, or thought much 
about it. Together they jogged on life’s way, striv- 
ing to obey the Lord’s commands, as in their simple 
fashion they understood them, thankful to him for 
the blessings which they enjoyed, and contented 
and happy with each other. 

No children had come to bless this union ; and if 
now and then a moment’s regret came that there 
were none, yet life was so full, in its steady, placid 
stream, that there was no time to spend in regrets 
and longings. 


LOVE IS THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW. 187 


When Mrs. Stevens had finished her household 
duties, there was always some call in the village 
on her warm-hearted, ready sympathy, — some sick 
to visit, some hungry to feed, and some naked to be 
clothed. 

Mrs. Stevens rocked on, unmindful of the “ boiled 
dish ” which was getting cold, till John, after hang- 
ing the towel back in its place, roused her from 
her revery to the present realities of corned beef 
and vegetables. 

But Mrs. Stevens could n’t shake off the woes of 
others lightly. The pictures of those desolate homes 
rose before her as she ate her dinner, as she washed 
her dishes while John took his ten minutes’ nap in 
the big chair, and they did not leave her as she sat 
down to do the last half-hour’s finishing to old 
Miss Simpson’s dress, and basted in the fresh white 
ruffles in neck and sleeves. Poor Miss Simpson, 
all helpless from inflammatory rheumatism ! 

She put the last stitches in just as she had about 
solved the problem in her mind which had been 
perplexing her ever since John told her about Dry- 
ville. His words kept recurring to her : “ If they 
had a few such good nurses as you, Mirandy — ” 

Did that mean she ought to go down to Dryville 
and lend a hand there ? Had she special gifts that 
others needed just now ? How could she leave 
John ? Did John mean it ? Whether he meant 
her to go or not, he had said, “ If they had a few 


188 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


such good nurses as you — ” She could n’t go 
alone, — how could she? Why, she hadn’t been 
outside of Newton for ten years, and never so far 
as Dryville 1 If she should go and catch the 
fever and die, what would become of John? — and 
two big tears stood in her eyes as she thought of it. 
But still the battle was waging in her own heart. 
She thought of the Bible command, “Love your 
neighbor as yourself.” Would n’t she be loving 
herself more than her neiglibor if she stayed at 
home ? What would Jesus do if he were here right 
now ? With a feeling almost of blasphemy at 
daring to think of her blessed Lord an inmate of 
her humble home, she timidly reviewed his acts, 
till emboldened by realizing, as never before, the 
interest he always showed in the daily home life 
and duties, she, imagined him there beside her 
and entered into confidential communion with him. 
It was a long and hard struggle. Love conquered ; 
and when John came home to supper Mrs. Stevens 
was ready to lay her plan before him. 

Wise Mrs. Stevens ! Her husband ate his sup- 
per with no thought of what was going on in his 
wife’s mind. She even waited till he had read his 
daily paper, and looking up said : “ ’T is pretty hard 
times. No let-up of fever down ter Dryville.” 

“ What should you think about my going down 
there, John, and nursing them for a while ? You 
know a nurse is just about as good as a doctor. 


LOVE IS THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW. 189 

if she knows what she ’s about.” Mrs. Stevens 
shivered all over as she said it. 

John dropped his paper. “ You, Mirandy, you ! 
How could you ? ” 

“Well, I s’pose I could. We most of us can do 
the things we want to. The question is whether 
we want to or not. I Ve been thinking about it all 
the afternoon. You said you thought ’t would be 
good for 'em to have such good nurses as I am. 
People send all sorts of things, but that ain’t what 
they need. They want folks to give themselves, 
and I guess the Lord means for me to go, tho’ 
’t ain’t quite clear yet.” 

“Well, Mirandy, this is sudden. I’m all struck 
up. But I can’t go back of what I ’ve said. I do 
think ’t would be the making of those sick folks 
down there, but I don’t know how I can spare 
you.” John looked sober. “But if ’t is the Lord’s 
will, Mirandy, I shan’t stand in the way. We 
won’t say ‘ yea ’ or ‘ nay ’ to-night. We ’ll think it 
over, and after prayers maybe we’ll know better 
what to do.” 

The next morning found them quite decided that 
Mrs. Stevens’s duty lay in Dryville, and she would 
go as soon as the necessary preparations could be 
made. She would ask Jane Clapp, a middle-aged 
woman with no relatives, how she felt about going 
too. The Master had sent out his disciples two by 
two, and it seemed more like following in his foot- 


190 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


steps to do likewise. So, as soon as her morning’s 
work was done, she slipped on her sunbonnet and 
went down the street to see Jane Clapp. 

Years before, — too many to tell, — Jane Clapp 
had come from an orphan asylum to live with a 
widowed lady in the village, who, dying, had left 
Jane her tiny cottage and a small sum of money. 
Jane added to this income, by the use of her needle, 
enough to support her. A tall, angular woman — 
“ good as gold,” the neighbors said — was this same 
Jane Clapp, conscientious to a fault and lenient to 
her neighbors’ failings. 

Mrs. Stevens found her at home, and broached 
the subject. 

“ Poor things I poor things ! ” repeated Jane, “ and 
nobody to nurse ’em ! You say you ’re going ? 
Well, I ’m just going too ! Poor things ! dying all 
alone, — poor things ! I ’ve nobody to mind if I 
don’t come back. I ’m ready, Mrs. Stevens. Don’t 
you think ’t would be a good plan for me to run 
round the village a little, and kinder get the women 
interested to give us some tilings w^e shall need, 
and maybe send more after us ? It’s just as you 
say, — they want love down there ; and they ’ll get 
a lot from our town, for I never saw kinder-hearted 
folks than we have.” 

A week later found Mrs. Stevens and Jane Clapp 
at Dryville. John Stevens had not let his wife go 
without a hard struggle. Never once had he spoken 


LOVE IS THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW. 191 


of his own loneliness, — only of his fears for her ; 
but he, too, felt that some one must go to that fever- 
stricken towm, and who so competent as Mirandy, — 
Mirandy, with her knowledge of sickness, her cheer- 
ful, even disposition, her encouraging ways, and, last 
and most, her faith in God ? He turned back from 
Brook- Junction with a lump in his throat, a tear in 
his eye, and a ^‘Good-by, Jane; God bless and keep 
you, Mirandy ! ” Brave John Stevens ! He, too, 
loved his neighbor better than himself. 

Dryville, Sept. 30, 1886. 

Dear John, — Jane and I got here just when we 
were most needed. I never saw such discouraged peo- 
ple in my life. The doctors were glad to see us, and 
we went right to work. I can’t stay all the time in one 
house, because there are so few people that can take 
care of the sick ones, and there are people who shut 
themselves up in their houses and won’t come out. 
Anyway, if Jane and I don’t do any other good, we have 
started one of these women down to help too. I saw 
her yesterday ; and when she found we had come from 
Newton, she wanted to know what we had come for. I 
told her we came to help take care of the sick. 

Yes, yes, I know that,” said she ; “ but xohy did 
you come 1 ” 

First, I did n’t know exactly what to say ; but Jane, 
she spoke right up in that short way of hers : “ ’Cause 
we love you.” 

You ought to have seen how that woman looked ! 


192 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


Her name is Mrs. Floyd. She did n’t speak for as much 
as half a minute. Then she said, — and I thought she 
was* going to cry-, — “ ’Cause you loved us 'I Well, you 
must have thought we did n’t love each other much by 
the way we act ! ” and she turned round and walked 
off. But this morning I saw her talking with the doc- 
tor, and pretty soon she went away with him ; and he 
told me afterwards she w^as taking care of some of the 
patients. We are well, and, God willing, will come 
back to you. Tell Susan Cook not to let that black 
hen set. She ’ll be sure to want to, and ’t would n’t do 
no good now ’tis so Tate ; and she must attend to the 
butter reg’lar. I hope you ’re comfortable. 

Your loving Mirandy. 

The news of John’s letter spread, and the minis- 
ter and half the village came to hear the news. 
Good Mr. Staples, the next day in the village 
church, thanked God for the good news, and prayed 
that such love and self-denial should not be without 
its good results. Then he read to them the words 
of Jesus : — 

“ The first of all the commandments is, Hear, 0 
Israel : The Lord our God is ""one Lord : and thou 
shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and 
with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with 
all thy strength : this is the first commandment. 
And the second is like, namely this, Thou shalt love 
thy neighbor as thyself. There is none other com- 
mandment greater than these.” 


LOVE IS THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW. 193 


He then selected as his text . “ Therefore love is 
the fulfilling of the law.” 

Mrs. Stevens’s next letter was still encouraging. 
She wrote : — 

. . . Mrs. Floyd is a wonder to us all. You would 
be astonished to see how much she does. Her patients 
all love her ; and more than that, when people saw she 
was n’t afraid to come right among the sick, they began 
to think they could come too, and now we have five new 
nurses. 

One poor man that was given to me was dying just 
because nobody told him to live, and he needed to 
be coaxed up a little. To-day he is doing first-rate. 
“ What made you come 1 ” he asked so often that I 
had to tell him it was because I was so sorry for them, 
and as the good Lord loved me I wanted to love other 
people. I heard him whisper to himself as he turned 
over, “ He that loveth another hath fulfilled the law.” 
I hope I have, but I did n’t mean to be always talking 
about it. Somehow it comes up all the time. 

Jane is so interested in two little sisters that have 
been awfully sick that she hardly leaves them. One 
woman died in my arms yesterday, ready to go, and 
blessing me with her last breath. I can’t tell you all 
about it, but I am so glad we came. There are n’t as 
many deaths as there were, but we need a spell of cold 
weather to break it up. Don’t worry about us, but 
take good care of yourself. I ain’t going to worry about 
the farm. I guess the Lord and you will do as well as 
I could. Your affectionate Mirandy. 

13 


194 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


But later came a sadder letter, for Jane Clapp 
had taken the fever. 

“ . . . Jane has come down with the fever. She 
was so fond of those two little girls that she would n’t 
leave them, and when the fever took her she was too 
worn out to resist it. She is very low, but we do not 
give her up. James Robson, the young man I wrote 
you about, is taking my place. ‘ If you could come to 
us, I too can do my part,’ he said ; and he is a comfort 
indeed.” 

A fortnight later, Mrs. Stevens was seated in the 
big armchair at home, looking perhaps a little pale 
and worn, hut her old cheerful self. On the lounge 
lay Jane Clapp, convalescent, and glad to he back 
again. At the door stood James Robson, who had 
brought them home, — a welcome visitor to the 
house of John Stevens. He it was who had been 
brought back to life by loving words of encourage- 
ment. John Stevens, from the back porch, surveyed 
them all with a contented happiness born of his 
unselfish love for others. 

The frost had come at last. The tide of fever at 
Dryville was stayed. As Dr. Huiibut shook hands 
with the two nurses at the station and hade them 
good-hy, he said with tears in his eyes : Bless you 
for coming to us in our hour of need I ‘ Greater love 
hath no man than this, that he lay down his life 
for his friends.’ ” 


Greater than the Temple. 


\ S every one may know, the good State of Con- 
necticut, which has sent out so many good 
and stalwart men over the length and breadth of 
the great country to settle it into peace and quiet 
by the laws of God and the strength of their good 
right arms, was itself settled by men who came out 
of Massachusetts, as these had, before that, come 
out of England. But not wholly in the same man- 
ner did these set forth for the colonization of 
Connecticut as they had first left their homes in 
England. For in England they left in sorrow those 
who would not allow them to worship God as 
they thought right ; but in Massachusetts they left 
their own brethren who gave them godspeed, and 
they set out across the breadth of New England, to 
extend farther the gospel of the Kingdom. For they 
went away from the good people of Massachusetts 
through no ill-will. But as time went on, the land 
round about Boston became poorer and poorer, 
through constant bearing of crops, even in spite of 
their manuring it much with fish and seaweed. So 
their hearts yearned after the rich bottom-lands 


196 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


alons the river Connecticut, of which word came 
to them. And indeed many of them thought it 
right that that good country should be saved to 
that English nation which they still loved, rather 
than it should be habited by the Dutch. Thus it 
was that in the early summer (some of them hav- 
ing gone before), near a thousand of the people of 
Newtown put together all they had, and with their 
horses, cattle, and swine set forth with the godly 
Mr. Hooker, whose wife was borne along in a horse- 
litter, that they might settle on the fertile lands on 
the great river to the westward. 

Among all these was Eustace Delanoy ; and he 
in a manner was with these people but not of 
them. For while they all were of the new faith, 
protesting against priests and bishops and against 
vestments and superstitions, he had been born and 
brought up in that old faith which had once filled 
all Christendom, though now through its own weak- 
ness and sin many had left it. Eustace was a 
strong young man, who had lived an adventurous 
life in England and through all Europe, and who 
now had come to America, both through the love 
of roving, and for the love of young Nathan La- 
throp (a young man of his own 5^ears, whom he had 
met some time since in England), for between them 
was a strong and tender friendship. Yet, though 
Nathan loved his friend dearly, and though he was 
strong in the faith of those about him (having left 


ONE GREATER THAN THE TEMPLE. 


197 


his own dear home in England for it), yet he could 
not prevail over Eustace to give up the old faith in 
which he had been brought up. Therefore this 
young man lived with the good Puritans, but not 
as one of them ; for though he did his part in the 
work, he had no voice in deciding matters of im- 
portance ; and though every Sunday he went with 
Nathan to the meeting-house, he was not one of 
the church, nor would he give up what had been 
taught him in his infancy by his pious mother, and 
by Father Clement the Jesuit, who had taught him 
his prayers and such other things as the common 
people may well know of the old faith. Still, as 
he was a hard workman and a lovable fellow, and 
withal silent and not contentious, he was not only 
suffered, but respected by those among whom he 
lived. 

It happened that on a Sunday Eustace sat alone 
on the bank above a little brook whereon the com- 
pany had pitched their camp. He was doing noth- 
ing ; for on the Sabbath none of the company did 
any work, except to give such food as they could to 
the dumb beasts with them ; for at this place was no 
meadow grass whereon they might graze, but it was 
in a great pine wood, through which this little river 
ran over a stony bed. And as he sat there, Eus- 
tace fell a-thiuking of the Sabbaths he had spent 
in the country in the few months since he had 
landed from the Old World. And in truth they 


198 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


seemed to him to be hard and repulsive. For the 
meeting-house at Newtown was a plain building, 
with rows of hard benches for the people, and a 
pulpit for the minister. And to this rude meeting- 
house Eustace had gone every Lord’s Day through 
the winter, and sat in the bitter cold, listening to 
sermons on points of doctrine which he had not 
understood, and to long prayers which seemed to 
him to be such that even the good God could not 
listen to them, and to the singing of hymns by a 
congregation who knew only a few sing-song tunes, 
and even these so that they could not sing them 
well together. And now his thoughts went back, 
as they had often done before, to some of the great 
cathedrals of the Old World, and he thought of the 
noble pillars and the great vaulted roofs, of the 
beautiful paintings and windows, of the solemn 
voice of the priest speaking in the Latin tongue, 
and the sweet voices of the boy choristers (of whom 
he had himself been one) as they answered each 
other from the different sides of the choir, and of 
the air heavy with the sweet smell of incense burnt 
in golden censers. And he thought to himself : 
“ Surely, sucli must be the dwellings of God. How 
can He be in a rough log-house wherein men 
meet on week-days to do the daily business of the 
town ? ” And the more he thought, the more he 
longed for those old days wherein, as it seemed, a 
man might be with God in the houses wherein He 


ONE , GREATER THAN THE TEMPLE. 


199 


must love to be. And he thought, too, of the good 
Father Clement, who had taught him his prayers ; 
and of Father Ambrose, who had led the little boys 
in singing in the great cathedral at Kouen, where 
Eustace had passed many days in his youth ; and 
of Father Boniface, who had taught him to read in 
the great convent garden in Italy. And he won- 
dered why he had ever come out to this new coun- 
try, though he knew in his heart that it was out of 
love for Nathan Lathrop, who had been as a brother 
to him ever since the two had saved themselves 
out of the wreck of a great ship on the north coast 
of England, near Flamborough. Yet, for all Nathan, 
he longed to go back to the Old World ; for though 
he was not now one who thought often of God and 
His ways, yet somehow at this moment the great 
cathedrals of the old faith wherein he had spent 
many of the days of his childhood came again to 
his mind in new power, and he felt a great longing 
for those houses of God, and suddenly a fierce hatred 
for these people who could not know Him, for that 
they had no place by them where He could dwell. 

As he was thinking thus, he heard the beating of 
the drum at a little distance, and arose to leave the 
river bank. He well knew the sound of that drum. 
Many a time in the winter had he heard it, as the 
drummer had stood on the roof of the meeting- 
house to give notice to the people of Newtown that 
public worship was about to begin. And at this 


200 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


moment Nathan Lathrop came out of the wood and 
joined himself to him ; and the two went together 
to where, in a little open space in the pine woods, 
the Puritans had gathered for morning worship. 

Eustace was at once impressed by an unusual 
solemnity. Everything in Nature seemed to join 
to give the impression of serious quiet and sweet 
silence. The weather was warm (it was toward the 
end of May), but with that beauty of the early 
spring that seems so full of hope and promise. 
The sky was clear, and the sun was shining down 
through the tall pine-trees and making its golden 
light dance here and there on the floor of pine 
needles as the boughs of the little trees above 
stirred to the little wind which moved among them. 
Some few birds of the woods at a little distance 
were singing merrily, the sound of the river could 
be faintly heard, and everything disposed one to 
calm thought and peaceful reverence. The jour- 
neyers were all seated together, either on the ground 
or on rude seats made of the stumps of trees or of 
old logs. On one side sat all the women, and on 
the other the men ; while before them all, on a great 
pine log which had fallen years before and was now 
half buried in the ground and covered with moss, 
sat the elders, and among them the good Mr. 
Hooker, to whose words they were about to listen. 
And at a little distance round about were the sen- 
tinels, who had to be set, with their guns in their 


ONE GREATER THAN THE TEMPLE. 


201 


hands, to see that no band of hostile Indians should 
come unnoticed near the encampment. 

The gathering was an impressive one. Thomas 
Hooker himself stood up in the midst of the elders, 
fervent and inspiring ; and beside him the Eev. Mr. 
Stone, his colleague, the noble Mr. John Haynes, 
and the stout-hearted Mr. Eoger Ludlow ; and with 
them other honored leaders, some of them gray- 
haired, others still powerful and strong, but all of 
them having on their faces a serene reverence and 
trust, mingled with all their hope and strength. 
And the congregation before them was of the same 
stuff as their leaders. The character of the men 
was strong, quiet, and determined ; that of the 
women was hopeful, confident, and strong. As he 
sat down, on the skirts of the great pine wood, 
among the younger men, Eustace felt an awe that 
worship in the meeting-house had never called forth 
in him, and a sort of regret that he should be with 
these people but not of them. 

The service opened with a short prayer, in which, 
through the fervency of the man, it seemed as 
though Mr. Hooker spoke to God face to face (as 
in truth the good man did), while he besought, in 
perfect confidence. His blessing on the undertaking 
in hand. And after that they all sang a hymn. 
Eustace had often before sung with the congrega- 
tion, though he had now no longer that sweet 
child’s voice wherewith he had praised God in the 


202 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


great cathedral at Eouen ; but never before had it 
seemed to him that those Protestant hymns which 
he sang would find their way to the throne of 
Grace, or reach the ear of tlie Almighty, Now, 
however, it was in a manner different. Wlrether it 
were that all present, feeling the solemnity of the 
occasion, were in a state somewhat exalted above 
common things ; whether it were that the open air 
and the many soft wood sounds caused the voices, 
soiiietimes harsh and rough, to blend together into 
what seemed harmony, — I cannot say: but as Eus- 
tace sang very simply, 

“ Praise ye the Lord, with hymns and psalms, 

Who bears you in a Father’s arms,” 

he seemed to feel a throb of emotion which he had 
never felt even when he chanted from one side of 
the choir, 

“All ye works of the Lord, praise ye the Lord,” 
and was answered from the other side with 

“ Praise Him and magnify His name forever.” 

Between the verses of the hymn there was al- 
most absolute silence. There were, in truth, the 
wind in the trees and the babbling of the brook, 
but there was now little song of birds. Neverthe- 
less, to the mind of Eustace, all the bird-songs 
which he had heard in the last few days — and 
they had been many and strange to this English 


ONE GREATER THAN THE TEMPLE. 203 

boy — seemed to be echoing together in his mind, 
making a more glorious thanksgiving than even the 
beautiful organ in the convent. And for a moment 
Eustace felt as did the people with whom his lot 
was for a time cast, and felt that he was one of 
them. 

When the hymn ended, Mr. Hooker took up his 
Bible, and read from it the verses beginning, “ The 
earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof,” and 
going on, “Who shall ascend unto the hill of the 
Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place ? ” 
And from this text that most eloquent preacher 
wrought a long discourse, suitable to the condition 
in which he and his flock then were, — a discourse 
admirable for its wisdom, but far more wonderful 
for the nearness of the speaker to the God whose 
servant he was. Eustace did not follow the sermon 
closely ; it was too hard an act of attention for his 
untrained mind to follow all the turnings of the 
Puritan’s lengthy discourse. Not that the sermon 
was of doctrine. Eather was it made up of words 
of sympathy, comfort, and cheer, — words which the 
settlers might hold in their hearts in their new 
homes. But still to Eustace it was too much to 
follow ; and as his custom was, his mind went wan- 
dering off on paths of his own, so that it was only 
now and then that he caught the words of the 
speaker. To-day his thoughts wandered to more 
purpose, perhaps, than ever before. The awful and 


204 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


beautiful pine forest in which he sat, with its 
mighty trees arising like columns to support the 
heavens ; the yet more mighty trees which had 
fallen to the ground and now supplied moss-cov- 
ered seats to the faithful ; the glimpses of the bright 
blue heaven above ; the soothing and 43omposing 
wood-sounds, — all put him into a reverent frame of 
mind. The earnestness of the speaker, felt though 
not perceived ; the stern and quiet confidence of the 
men and women who sat intent on the minister’s 
word ; the silent wonder of a squirrel who inspected 
the proceedings from a little distance, — all impressed 
him as no service in the meeting-house had ever 
done, and calmed and comforted the lonely feeling, 
and the longing for the Old World which had filled 
his heart before. Somehow he got it into his mind 
that God himself might be here in the very forest, 
— that in these very wild places of New England 
might be the true home of the Almighty, as well 
even as in the glorious cathedrals of the old faith. 
And here his attention was attracted a moment by 
the minister, who suddenly cried out, in what con- 
nection Eustace knew not nor cared, — 

But I say unto you. That in this place is one 
greater than the temple.” 


They Watched and Prayed. 


A S the settlers proceeded toward the Connecti- 
cut, they sent out before them certain who 
went ahead, both to see that there were no Indians 
prowling in the woods, and also, having with them 
the guides, that they might mark the path for the 
rest to follow. And most of those who went before 
were young men ; and among them was Eustace 
Delanoy and also Nathan Lathrop, for they were 
among the strongest of the young men, and of the 
most expert with the firelocks. But with them 
also was a man much older than the rest, for he 
was now near seventy, and his name was Nehemiah 
Webb. And he went with the young men, both 
because he knew the woods and the ways of the 
Indians, and because he was a single man, having 
no one depending upon him. And as they marched 
one day, Eustace had much talk with him ; for the 
two had much in common, in that both had led 
roving lives, though Master Webb had long since 
settled down, and both had passed a part of their 
lives in the beautiful countries of France and Italy. 
And as they talked that day, Eustace asked the old 


206 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


man about his adventures in war, and asked him if 
he had ever had the feeling of fear. For it was 
always said by the neighbors that Master Webb 
feared not man nor devil, nor never had ; and it was 
said of him that he often had seasons of striving 
with the Evil One, and that he had many times 
put him behind the back and under the foot. So 
Eustace, as they were in conversation, asked him 
whether he had ever in his life known fear ; “ for 
I,” said he, “ though I have often been in peril of 
my life, and though I have never yet, thank God, 
shown the white feather, nor borne back my foot 
from the way of danger, yet often, in time of sud- 
den peril, have T felt as though my bowels had be- 
come water, so that all my strength would go from 
me. Then must I clinch my teeth, and make rigid 
my muscles, and stiffen myself, so that I might hold 
my ground, and not bear back a foot.” 

“ I know that feeling,” said the old man ; ‘‘ and it 
is a common one with the bravest men, as I have 
heard the oldest soldiers testify. And I myself 
have also felt that feeling when I was young, an 1 
notably when I have stood divers times in a row of 
pikemen in the Low Countries, and seen the Span- 
ish men-at-arms come thundering across the plain 
against us, horse and man heavy with steel, and we 
standing only in a thin double line, with a few 
small cannon. But that was in the days of my 
youth, while I was a young man, and had no 


WATCH AND PKAY. 


207 


tliouglit save for the things of this world. And then 
I was brave because I thought it manly to be brave, 
trusting in myself and being unwilling to lose my 
character (even to myself) for being courageous and 
without fear. But that time is gone now, and I 
have a firmer rock on wdiich to set my foot to with- 
stand any danger. 

“ Howbeit, in those days I had two models of bra- 
very ; and both of them I knew myself, being two 
of the bravest men who ever walked on the earth, 
and both of them true Christian men, though not 
wholly sound in some ways, having had no light. 
And one was the noble Sir Philip Sidney, who com- 
manded some of the English in the Low Countries, 
at the battle of Zutphen. And truly he was the 
noblest and truest and bravest knight that ever set 
foot in the stirrup, and he was a model to all the 
army, for all loved him and worshipped him. 

“ And while he was with the army no one would 
acknowledge that there could be such a thing as 
fear. For Sir Philip knew nothing of it; and it 
was through very fearlessness that he died. For on 
going into battle at Zutphen, he saw the general 
of the Spaniards over against him, riding before 
his men-at-arms in light armor, wearing only his 
cuirass, having no cuisses or steel thigh -plates, 
such as men still w^ore in those days, but now they 
hardly wear them. So Sir Philip threw off his own 
cuisses, for he said it were unknightly to go into 


208 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


battle having tlie advantage of his adversary. But 
as it turned out, he received a musket-ball in the 
thigh, which broke and splintered the bone so that 
in about two weeks after he died. 

‘‘ And this deed of Sir Philip’s was something for 
a young man to think of, and to hold up before 
himself, that he might have no fear. And such it 
was to me for a time, but now it seems to me a rash 
tempting of the Lord (for I have often thought of it 
since, in that I was near him and saw him fall from 
his horse), and a throwing away of wliat strength 
the Lord has given one. And so Sir Philip is no 
more my model, for I think that man has no right 
to refuse any good thing the Lord may send. And 
for a long time after that, my mind went back to 
that other hero I mentioned, who was the great Sir 
Humphrey Gilbert, who was also a model of bra- 
very to young men and old, and one who gave ex- 
ample by his death of a true faith in God. For I 
was with him (being but a ship’s boy) when he 
sailed for the colonizing of these parts of New 
England, now fifty-three years since. And the 
story of that time is long and sad; and no good 
came of it at all, except the noble saying of Sir 
Humphrey. 

“For as we were sailing for England (we were off 
the coast away to the north of Boston, I know not 
where), we were taken in a great storm. And the 
admiral was on board of the smaller of the two 


WATCH AND PRAY. 


209 


vessels, which was a mere cockle-shell among the 
waves, and overloaded by the weight of the artil- 
lery. But I was on the ‘ Hind,’ which was larger. 
And as the storm increased, we made sure we 
should go down, with all souls on hoard ; and as for 
the other ship we thought that it was lost already. 
But suddenly we came upon it again, and that a 
little ahead of us on our right hand. But when we 
saw it, it was as though we saw a man prepared 
for death. For the sails were all blown away ; and 
the sailors were doing nothing, for indeed there was 
nothing that could be done. And some of them 
were kneeling in prayer, and others were only 
weeping or else cursing. But the admiral stood 
high up in the stern, and he was giving courage to 
his men ; for he had in his hand the Bible, and was 
reading out of it, but it was too far for us to hear 
what he read. And as the wind drove us on, we 
swept up by the admiral’s ship and beyond it. And 
as we passed her (for we were so close that we 
might have thrown a keg aboard of her), the 
admiral, looking at our white faces as we clung to 
the rail, cried out to us in a great voice, ‘ Fear not, 
men ; for ye are as near heaven by sea as by land ! ’ 
And so, with these words ringing in our ears, we 
swept by on a great wave ; and when we looked 
back we saw the ship far in the distance. And 
the ‘ Hind ’ was by God’s mercy saved out of that 
storm, and the other ship was never heard of again. 


210 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOIIIES. 


And so Sir Humphry Gilbert went down to his 
death with one hand on his Bible, and the other 
holding the hand of God. And all through my life 
the words of that man have remained to me for a 
strength and a help in trouble ; and many a time 
now in later life I have thought of it (though when 
a youth I thought more of Sir Philip Sidney), and 
it has strengthened me in my feeling that I am al- 
ways in the hollow of the hand of God. But I 
have now one other reason why I should not feel 
fear, and that for me a better one.” 

And with that the old man was silent for a piece, 
while Eustace wondered what other reason he might 
have for knowing not fear, and how it could be a 
better one. For he had heard before that story of 
Sir Philip Sidney, and had always held it up to 
himself as a model, that a man might go into battle 
as lightly as to see his sweetheart. But the story 
of Sir Humphrey Gilbert he had never heard ; and 
though he liked it much, and though he saw that it 
was the nobler bravery of the two, yet he had him- 
self no such trust in God that that bravery could 
be a real inspiration to him. Yet he wondered also 
at the old man’s words, that there could be a better 
reason for fearlessness than a trust in God. So, 
seeing that Master Webb was silent, he asked him 
to tell him this third reason ; “ unless,” he added, 
“ you do not wish to speak of such things to me, — 
for you may not think that I shall care for them:” 


WATCH AND PRAY. 


211 


Not so,” said the old man, “ not so, my son. I 
would tell any man that asked it of me. Who am 
I that I should refuse to tell that which the Lord 
has told me ? ” Still he was silent for a space, and 
so was Eustace. In a minute, however. Master 
Webb began again. 

“You know me now as an old man who lives 
here almost alone among all this people, having no 
ties of blood or of marriage with any of them. And 
you see that I am old, and cannot have many more 
years to live, so that it will not perhaps be strange 
to you to know that I am ready to die at whatso- 
ever time the Lord may send word to me. It must 
seem strange to all young people that all old people 
are not always ready and desirous to die. But all 
men are not ready. I was, when a boy, as I have 
told you, a wild fellow, and often in danger and in 
peril, leading no very godly life, but being with 
soldiers and sailors, and adventurers of all kinds. 
For the days of my youth were great days for Eng- 
land. It was in my day that Sir Francis Drake 
sailed around the world; it was in my day that 
Lord Howard of Effingham beat off the Spanish 
Armada ; it was in my day that Sir Walter Kaleigh 
attempted the colonization of Virginia, where it was 
thought there would be gold and precious stones in 
abundance, and that Sir John Hawkins gained 
wealth and credit in the Spanish Main. And of 
all these things I heard much from those who were 


212 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


concerned in them, and in some of them I was con- 
cerned myself. For as I told you, I fought in the 
Low Countries, and I made the Newfoundland voy- 
age, and I have done other things that need not be 
mentioned. But I was a wild young man, and a 
sinful one, and a rover, having no home, and caring 
for none. But one day I came back to what had 
been my home when I had been a child, and I 
found there my old father and my mother, whom 
I had left years before, when I ran away to go to 
sea. And then, by the grace of God, I fell into 
talk with them, and with their good minister, so 
that my former life seemed foolish and sinful, and 
I had no desire to go back to it. And to my father 
and mother, and to the good Mr. Brown, under God, 
do I owe it that I was converted from a loose and 
careless life to a life more worth living by a Chris- 
tian man whose aim should always be the greater 
glory of God. And I gave up my former ways, and 
settled upon my father’s farm, for he was old. And 
I joined myself to the congregation of those who 
tried to worship God in the purity of the Scriptures, 
and for thirty years, almost, I lived on that farm, do- 
ing my duty in that place in life to which God had 
called me. And I married a woman in that country, 
who was to me the best inspiration to right living 
that man ever had, except only tlie Holy Scriptures 
and the e:xample of our Lord. And with her I 
lived peacefully and happily for near twenty years. 


WATCH AND PKAY. 


213 


and we were blessed with four children. And iny 
father lived till he was eighty-seven years of age, 
and my mother till she was seventy -three. So that 
there could not well have been a happier home than 
mine. And now every one of them is dead. Every 
one of them has gone before me, and I am alone on 
this earth. For my mother died in the natural way 
of life, having but a short illness, and suffering but 
little. And my father died ten years after her. 
And for all those years he was blind and paralytic, 
yet he waited his end with cheerfulness, and died 
in the confidence of a Christian. And of my four 
children every one is dead, some in one way, and 
some in others. And my wife was the last. For 
when times of persecution came, we left our home 
in England, and set out for this country. And my 
wife died in the fierceness of the first winter. So 
now I have been for some years alone in this world, 
and I am but waiting for the messenger of the Lord 
to come for me, and give the command that I be 
with him this day in Paradise. And to that day I 
now look forward, being ready for it. But I know 
not when it may come. But in the course of nature 
it must come soon, therefore I have made ready 
against it. And this is the lesson of it, as is written 
in the Gospel, ‘ Take ye heed, watch and pray ; for 
ye know not when the time is.’ And tliis word 
has for thirty years been on my heart. For this 
was the lesson which Mr. Brown sought most to 


214 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


instil into the hearts of liis flock. And with this 
word to my father my mother died. And with this 
word my father lived ten years, blind and paralytic, 
and then he died. And with this word my wife and 
I brought up our four children. And this same word 
we took to ourselves as each one of them was car- 
ried to the grave. And this word was the last that 
my wife spoke to me when she was dying in my 
arms. And wlien 1 die, if one should look, there 
will be found written on my heart the words 
‘Watch and pray.’” 

And with this, the old man was silent for a mo- 
ment, and then went on : “ And that word is a 
more effectual buckler to me than -a threefold corse- 
let of steel. For if a man has ordered his affairs 
with God rightly, he will never fear the summons 
to be with Him. And the man whose heart is at 
peace, the man who will always w^atch and pray, 
that man cannot fear death ; for death will be no 
more than a summoner to One who shall say, ‘ Well 
done, thou good and faithful servant ! ’ Therefore I 
myself have no fear of Him.” 

“ But to be thus strong,” said Eustace, doubtfully, 
“ you must be sure that you are one of those who 
are to enjoy tlie Lord’s kingdom.” 

“ I am sure that I am one of the elect,” said the 
old man, grimly ; but he softened in a minute, say- 
ing, “ You are wrong in what you say ; for even if 
a man be not sure of his salvation, it is better for 


WATCH AND PRAY. 


215 


him to be always ready, in so far as he may be, 
rather than to be at any time unprepared.” And 
with this the conversation ceased ; for Eustace be- 
came suddenly aware that he was by no means 
ready to die, and began to wonder how he should 
ever be so. So he became thoughtful. 

And two days after that, one of the party, who 
was a sentinel in the night, was shot by an Indian 
in a thicket, and killed for the sake of his gun and 
his powder, which were stolen away from him. And 
he was the only one lost during the whole journey, 
for the Indians did not come near the camp. Now, 
the man who was killed was a young fellow, younger 
than Eustace ; a ne’er-do-weel, a son of good parents, 
but not a member of the church, nor by any means 
ready for death. 



I %. 


What She Could. 


TT would be well if we could follow Eustace 
Delanoy in his life with the good Puritans in 
their new settlement, called at first Newtown, and 
afterwards Hartford, after Mr. Stone’s old home in 
England. But it would be too long a story, and it 
will perhaps be better for us, who cannot do every- 
thing, if we know of one adventure of his later life ; 
so here is the story of how Eustace met his old 
teacher. Father Clement the Jesuit, out in the 
wilderness of America. 

For though Eustace loved his friend Nathan, 
who shortly married one of the Puritan maidens 
of his own people, and also the good Mr. Hooker, 
as well as the other strong and good men among 
whom he made his home, yet he had too much of 
the rover in his nature ever to abide long in the 
same place, and thus at one time or another he 
would be packing up a few goods and going off 
with some of his companions on an excursion for 
trading or hunting. And so he travelled on foot 
over a great part of New England, and grew to 
know the great wilderness and to love it. And on 


218 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


the north he travelled as far as the White Hills, 
which are beyond the great lake whence comes the 
river Merrimac ; and on the west he had often gone 
as far as the island of the Manhattoes, where the 
homely Dutch lived and traded with the Indians. 
And once, passing thence to the north by the great 
river Hudson, he had gone far beyond Eenssellaer- 
wick (which is now Albany), into the country of 
the fierce Mohawks ; and there, among the Iroquois, 
he had met his old teacher. Father Clement the 
Jesuit. 

For the Company of Jesus sends its faithful ser- 
vants out over all the world to bring in new be- 
lievers to that old faith wherein Eustace had been 
born. Into far China and Japan on the east, into 
Patagonia on the south, and now into the wild 
country of New France in the west, did the brave 
priests travel, through the order of their captain, to 
preach the good tidings of their Master, Jesus, to 
all the heathen. And so, among others, the good 
Father Clement had been called from the pleasant 
fields and homes of England, where he had been 
bearing comfort secretly to such as still loved the 
old faith, and had been sent forth to preach the 
gospel to the wild and fierce Iroquois in the New 
World. 

And it was in this way that Eustace met his old 
teacher. On a certain day he had set forth from 
the fort at Renssellaerwick, with some of the Dutch, 


SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD. 219 


to whom he had for a time joined himself, bearing 
various things to trade with the Indians for skins. 
And after some days, coming to an Indian town, 
they made known their purpose, and were invited 
by the chief of the tribe to the great house that 
they might trade. And when the trading was 
done, Eustace had betaken himself to walk round 
about the town, which was all new and strange to 
him. For though he had seen something of the 
New England Indians, yet he had never before 
been among the Iroquois, who were famous above 
all otlier Indians for their fierceness and their 
cruelty and their power in war. So, as Eustace 
wandered about the village, he looked at the braves, 
who lay on skins, smoking red stone pipes, or else 
sleeping away the day, or else ornamenting them- 
selves with grease and paint and feathers, and at 
the women, who were busy drawing water, or cook- 
ing food, or pounding corn in a sort of stone mortar. 
And everything that he saw seemed strange to him ; 
but he himself seemed not strange to the Indians, 
for they were accustomed to the traders, who had 
often before been with them to sell their goods, and 
receive, in return, skins. 

But as Eustace was proceeding onward through 
the village, he suddenly saw something which made 
his heart beat more quickly, and made his throat 
choke so that for a time he stood quite still. For a 
little before him he saw a crowd of Indian children, 


220 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


perhaps a dozen, sitting down or lying on the 
ground in a circle ; and sitting on the ground with 
them, as though he were playing with them, was a 
man habited in a garment which Eustace knew 
well, for it was the black robe which Father 
Clement had worn in the days when Eustace used 
to say his prayers to him in his old English home, 
the black robe of the Company of Jesus. 

So Eustace, recovering himself, ran to the priest. 
But as yet he knew not that it was Father Clem- 
ent. As he came nearer, however, he saw that the 
priest’s eyes were fixed on the ground, and that 
the good man, kneeling on his knees, not sitting, as 
Eustace had thought, was telling the beads of his 
rosary, and saying, “ Pater noster, qui es in caelo ; ” 
while all the little Indians said after him, sentence 
by sentence, “ Pater noster, qui es in caelo.” And 
as Eustace heard again the words of the old faith, 
which he had so often said and heard when a boy 
in the far-off countries wherein his youth had been 
passed, instinctively he fell upon his knees, and 
made the sign of the cross upon his breast, as he 
had not done before for many years. 

And when the prayer was done. Father Clement 
(for it was he) raised his eyes and saluted Eustace 
cordially in the Dutch tongue, for he knew that 
Dutch traders were in the town, and thought that 
Eustace had been one of them ; for it was a long 
time ago that the two had been together in Eng- 


SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD. 221 


land, and the Father could not recognize the little 
golden-haired boy who sat upon his knee, in the 
sunburned and bearded man who now stood before 
him. But Eustace answered the priest in French, 
and asked his name, saying that it had been a long 
time since he had seen one of the black gowns, and 
that the time had been, and indeed was yet, that 
he loved them, and thought them more noble to be 
worn than the robes of any king. So he sat down 
with the Jesuit, and each told the other his name, 
and so they knew each other. 

Of the meeting of two dear friends after a long 
parting, little can be said by another. To Eustace, 
the sight of the old priest, and the knowledge that 
it was his old tutor, called up such memories that 
for a time he could say or do nothing. For he re- 
membered the days, long ago, when he had been 
but a child ; he remembered his pious mother long 
dead ; he remembered the evenings when he had sat 
upon the knees of the good priest and listened to 
stories of good men and women in the past ; and 
indeed the whole of his earlier life, while he had 
been with those of the old faith, before he had 
betaken himself to his roving, came back to him 
as a great flood. And as for Father Clement, the 
sight of the young man brought back to him all 
those days in England, when he had passed about 
the country, secretly giving comfort to those who 
still loved the old faith, — those days of happy 


222 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


companionship with others in misfortune, of hope- 
ful endurance under present oppression. And for 
a time neither spoke to the other, for both were 
too full of their thoughts to be able to say a word. 
But at last the Father overcame his emotion, and 
having sent away the little Indian children, he took 
Eustace with him to his liut, and the two sat down 
together, to talk to each other as only two friends 
can after a long absence. For truly Father Clem- 
ent, in going out to this New World, had thought 
that he left behind him everything that was dear to 
him ; and indeed he had rejoiced in doing so, in that 
he was doing his Master’s business. And Eustace 
had lived so long- among the Puritans that his past 
life among the Catholic Fathers had seemed to him 
to be but a part of a past that was now gone 
forever. So they talked together that afternoon, 
and far into the evening. And the Father asked 
Eustace all about his life, and where lie had lived, 
and what he was now doing, and whether he were 
still a true son of that great mother Holy Church, 
wherein he had been born. And Eustace told the 
Father all his adventures by sea and land, and how 
he had come to the New World, and what he was 
doing in it. But as to his being a son of the Holy 
Catholic Church, he said little of it ; for indeed he 
was divided in mind, and had been divided a long 
time, as to whether it were better for him to join 
with those among whom he made his home, and 


SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD. 223 

worship God according to what they called his con- 
science and his reason, or whether he should still 
in his heart keep the old belief in which he had 
been brought up. And, as I say, he had not yet 
come to a mind about the matter. So he said little 
of it to Father Clement. But he asked the priest 
of how his work went among the Iroquois ; and the 
Father told him of all his experiences in the New 
World, saying little of all his hardships and priva- 
tions, and dwelling much upon the joy in doing the 
Lord’s work. But as Eustace questioned him more, 
he saw that the Indians were fierce and savage, and 
that Father Clement could not well gain a hold 
upon them, — that they were prone to go back to 
their old ways even after he had shown them the 
right path ; and indeed to Eustace it seemed as 
though the priest were putting his life in danger 
without reason. But Father Clement spoke of his 
work with the Indian children, of how he taught 
them their prayers, and told them stories of the 
saints, and tried to teach them the truth, and was 
in fact so cheerful and hopeful that Eustace came 
to partake of his inspiration, and look on the matter 
as did Father Clement himself. 

Late at night the friends separated to sleep ; and 
Eustace rolled himself on one side of the fire in the 
priest’s hut, while the priest lay by the other, and 
so both slept a bit. But neither slept on through 
the whole night. For after having slept a few 


224 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


hours, Father Clement arose quietly, and went out 
of the hut, and into the forest a little way, to 
where a great pine-tree stood, whereon was nailed a 
little crucifix. And before the crucifix the good 
Father knelt down and prayed for the soul of this 
son of his that had been given back to him, that he 
might have grace given him to bring him again 
into the fold whence he had wandered. But as for 
Eustace, he awoke an hour or so before dawn, and 
finding the Father gone, he lay rolled in his blanket 
and let his thoughts pass through his mind as they 
would. And his thoughts ran mostly on Father 
Clement ; and he thought over all he knew of him 
and all he had heard of him from others. For 
Father Clement in Eustace’s youth had been one of 
those good Fathers whose duty it was to go about 
England, giving comfort to those who still held to 
the old faith, who now lay under sore persecution. 
And in so doing, the Father, at the risk of his 
life, — for Jesuits were misliked in England in 
those days as now, — had brought comfort to many 
souls through the length and breadth of the coun- 
try, so that there were many who felt for him as 
for their own father or mother. And many were 
the houses which lightened with gladness when 
Father Clement entered them with his comforting 
words for those who were oppressed. And Eustace 
remembered, too, hearing from other priests (for he 
had known many), how Father Clement was, even 


SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD. 225 

among the Jesuits, a very learned man, well read 
both in the Greek and Latin, and in Hebrew, and a 
man of great power to defend the doctrines and up- 
hold the truth ; so that there were many who said 
that Father Clement was to be one of the great 
men in the Society of Jesus, — a man who should 
keep that mighty body in the riglit way, so that it 
should do good only, and no harm, for there were 
some who thought it might do harm. And he 
remembered how once for a time Father Clement 
had left his poor people in England, at tlie order 
of his superior, and set himself to teach in a great 
Jesuit school in France, wherein Eustace himself, 
having somewhat grown up, had seen him in the 
midst of his scholars, who one and all loved him 
and honored him, while all others said there was 
none like Father Clement to teach the young in the 
right way, and to comfort the hearts of the old. 
And Eustace himself had often wondered how the 
Father could content himself with such work, when 
he might have written great books, for he was a 
scholar, or when he might have become one of the 
great powers in his order, to be honored of men. 
But in such times of wondering, he had always 
thought in himself that it was truly better to be 
loved and honored everywhere, as Father Clement 
was, rather than to hold high office, for that one did 
more good thereby. And as he thought of these 
things, he wondered greatly that Father Clement 
15 


226 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


should be content to be here among these fierce 
Iroquois, who cared not a jot for him or his word, 
and who constantly put his life in danger. For he 
said, It is surely wrong that a man like Father 
^ Clement, who could win the love of thousands in 
the Old World, and make them better and happier, 
should pass his days here among the fierce Iroquois, 
teaching these naked Indian brats how to say their 
prayers.” And when he thought of how the good 
Fathers life was thus wasted, and of how so many 
in the Old World were now without the comfort 
of his presence, his heart was very heavy within 
him. 

And as he was thinking these things, Father 
Clement himself returned from his praying, and 
sat down by him. And Eustace at once spoke 
right out the things that were in his heart, telling 
him that it was a shame and a waste that he who 
might have done so much, had he stayed at home, 
should be here where he could do nothing, and 
where his life would surely be taken sooner or 
later by these Indians, who cared nothing for him or 
for his word. But the Father hushed him up as he 
was saying these things, and said to him : My son, 
you know not what you say when you speak thus. 
You must not repine and complain against the will 
of God. You must not think that you know better 
what is for the best than He who has sent me here. 
Do you not remember the story I have told you 


SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD. 227 


often of the woman who washed our 'dear Lord’s 
feet, as he sat at meat in Bethany ? For she bore 
ointment of spikenard, which was very costly, and 
anointed his feet therewith, and washed them with 
her tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her 
head. And some who were by were indignant, and 
said it might have been sold for three hundred 
pence, and given to the poor. But our Lord said : 
‘Let her alone. Why trouble ye her? She hath 
done what she could.’ So, my son, how should I 
repine, even if 1 thought that my work which I 
have left were good, and pleasing to the Lord, — 
how should I repine when I see that it is his will 
that I should do something else ? To you, perliaps, 
it seems as though my work here were nothing ; to 
me, indeed, at times it seems small; but to the 
Lord it is not small, for to him there can be no 
difference between small and great. I do here what 
I can. I was called by the Lord from my work in 
England and in France, and was by him bidden to 
preach the gospel among these poor children of 
the forest. How could I but go ? And how can 
I but rejoice that I am tliought worthy to be one 
of those who shall spread the gospel over the whole 
world, until ‘ at the name of Jesus every knee shall 
bow, and every tongue confess him to be the Lord’? 
It is not for you, my son, nor for me, to repine that 
three hundred pence are not given to the poor, pro- 
vided that we do what we can, and do it knowing 


228 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


it to be the 'Lord’s work. And as for me, I know 
that I am doing my Father’s business. And if I 
receive the crown of a martyr,” said he, after a 
pause, “I shall rejoice greatly, for then I shall 
know that the Lord has seen my labors here, even 
among these poor children, and that they have been 
not unpleasing to liim.” 

So, after other talk, Eustace went back with the 
Dutch traders, and so to the Connecticut; and 
Father Clement remained among the Indian chil- 
dren, teaching them to say, “ Our Father who art in 
heaven.” 


Remember Me. 


^/TAY we hope that the readers of two of the 
earlier stories in this book remember Albin 
Crowell, — the young fellow who was discouraged 
in his studies at Zurich, who “ went to meeting ” 
in the little Waldensian assembly in Verona, and 
who then and there determined ‘^to do the duty 
which came next his hand ” ? ^ 

He never regretted for a moment the great de- 
cision which he made in the courtyard at Verona. 
Indeed, in his own mind he marked that day as a 
sort of new birthday in the experience of his life. 
He did not himself feel the temptation to shirk 
work, or to abandon his studies, which had haunted 
him so often before. But wlien he saw any other 
young fellow at Zurich who seemed to have for- 
gotten why he had been sent there, Albin Crowell 
would remember the earnestness of the old Ital- 
ian, and his serious repetition of the words, “ Obe- 
diens erat ad mortem, autem ad mortem crucis,” — 
“ He was obedient unto death, even the death of 
the cross.” 


^ See pages 13 and 35, above. 


230 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


When he returned to America, Albin found that 
his own home was much changed to him. The 
“ fellows ” whom he had thought most important in 
the society of Dustinboro were no longer the sort 
of ruling club or community which they had been 
when he was fifteen, or which he had thought 
them. In truth, these “fellows” were a year or 
two older than Albin ; and until he first left home 
for the Technical School, he had venerated them as 
a sort of unofficial senate or board of censors in 
the town, who knew what should be and what 
should not, even if under the circumstances they 
were not able to carry out all their plans. This 
company of young men had extended a sort of 
courtesy to Albin, such as most boys of his age 
did not receive from them. Perhaps this was be- 
cause he was a son of the largest manufacturer in 
the town. But in those days Albin had not pre- 
sumed too far on such courtesy. He was a gentle- 
man, and knew his place, and he did not presume 
to intrude on their severer counsels. 

Now that he came home after several years’ ab- 
sence at the Technical School and at Paris and 
Zurich, this young man found, as has been said, 
that this company or association did not impress 
him as it had done when he was a boy. Some of 
them had gone away, — one or two, indeed, being 
on the other side of the world. Some of the most 
prominent and most outspoken in their criticism 


THIS DO IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME. 231 

of the social order of Dustinboro were in very 
insignificant positions in life, and evidently had 
not yet been recognized as leaders of men. It 
was whispered that one very pleasant and cordial 
fellow, whose motto had been, “ Let us live while 
we live,” was in the State’s prison. Albin did not 
want to seem above his old associates, or separated 
from them by the accident of a foreign education. 
He took the first chance, therefore, to ask two or 
three of this set, whom he met at the post-office, 
to come to his father’s and dine with him. And 
they came. But the party seemed to drag a little. 
They did not have much to say to each other, and 
Albin found it a little hard to talk with them. 

So it happened that, at the first blush of his re- 
turn to his native town, he found himself the least 
bit lonely. To a certain extent he had expected 
this. But he had, in an indefinite way, thought 
that he should find the set, which has been de- 
scribed, as much enlarged and improved by five 
years of life as were some others of his companions. 
In this hope he was disappointed. There were few 
of them here. They were not, as he found them, 
such companions as he liked ; indeed they were not 
companionable. He had grown in one way ; and it 
did not seem to him that most of them had grown 
at all, except in stature. 

Thus it _was that Albin devoted himself to his 
work in his father’s establishment without exactly 


232 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


the enthusiasm, which he would have been glad to 
have, of rejoining old companions. Such disappoint- 
ments are not unfrequent. But they have their com- 
pensations, and so he found. He found in the shops 
themselves men whose acquaintance he prized, and 
whose experience was invaluable to him. There 
were many Norwegian and Swedish hands in the 
establishment ; and among them he found many 
young men, and some quite advanced in life, who 
had received an admirable education at home, and 
who had emigrated, because they had a vein of ad- 
venture and romance which made them very inter- 
esting companions. Then the town was growing 
very fast under the sway of the great industries, — 
in one of which he was enlisted. All sorts of people 
from every nation under heaven came in ; and among 
these he found many companions to his taste, to be 
with whom was an education. 

But his great companion was his sister Dorothy. 
She was next to him in the family ; but she had 
caught up with him in age, had read carefully and 
well, and knew people who were worth know- 
ing. She had early found that, on the whole, peo- 
ple — if they are the right people — are quite as 
well worth knowing as books ; and she resolutely 
tried to talk every day with some one who was her 
superior. Albin had taken up a like habit ; and 
as they fitted in with each other nicely, they had 
many a long walk or drive together, in which each 


THIS DO IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME. 233 

was a great comfort and help to the other. It was 
in a ride on horseback one Saturday afternoon, 
when they were both well mounted, that Albin told 
her the story which has been told in another chap- 
ter, of his Sunday in Verona. “ How often have I 
wished,” said he, “that I had or could form the 
habit which that old saint had, and that I had the 
Saviour at hand as a present friend, as I saw he 
did ! Let him say, ' Obediens erat ad mortem, au- 
tem ad mortem crucis,’ and he makes me remember 
that, and it comes back to me when I need it. But 
I do not think that I say to myself, ‘ What would 
Jesus Christ do, or ,what would he say, or how 
would he like to have me do just now ? ’ Some- 
times, when I am blowing up a poor barefoot boy 
for being late at his work, I wish afterward that 
the Master had been at my side.” 

Dorothy never meant to counsel her brother. 
She did not mean to counsel him now. She loved 
him always, and she sympathized with him always. 
There was a moment’s pause, as the horses forged 
on ; and then she did say, very simply : “ I sup- 
pose that is one thing which the Kemembrance is 
for : ' This do in remembrance of me.’ ” She added 
nothing. She had nothing to add. They came, at 
the moment, to a narrow wood-road, where they^ 
could not ride abreast ; and when they came to the 
high-road again, the talk took another turn. 

But as it happened, — perhaps that is the best 


234 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


word, — Albin Crowell had never received the com- 
munion, nor offered himself to membership in any 
Separate church. He was a well-disposed boy. 
He would have knocked any one down who had 
presumed, in his boyhood, that he would lie, or 
steal, or do any unclean thing. But perhaps under 
the influence of the set of older boys who have 
been described, he had never, in form, put his name 
on the list of the church, and therefore he had 
never received the sacrament. It followed, nat- 
urally perhaps, that, while travelling abroad, he 
had seen other people go to the altar-rail and 
kneel before the communion-table, and he had not 
joined them. But now, the next day after their ride, 
when the minister of the church gave the customary 
invitation to those present, Albin remained through 
the service with his father and mother and sister, 
and, without asking anybody any questions, par- 
took of the bread and the wine. As he walked 
home he said to his sister that he believed he would 
have done it even if the clergyman had not asked 
him. To tell you the truth,” he said, I think I 
received my invitation eighteen hundred years ago. 
I have thought of it ever since you spoke to me 
yesterday. How should I expect to remember my 
Saviour if I do not do what he asks me to do in 
remembrance of him ? ” 

The next morning he walked around to see Mr. 
Sheldon, the minister ; and then, in the form of 


THIS DO IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME. 


235 


the village church, he was enrolled as a member 
of the church. On Tuesday, as he walked home 
from the counting-room, he overtook Harry Perry, 
who was the one of the older ‘'set” w^ho have been 
described with whom, on the whole, Albin main- 
tained the closest intimacy since he had returned 
home. He did not dislike Perry ; and Perry liked 
to maintain his intimacy with Albin. They were 
on the simple terms of boy companionship ; and 
both of them really felt very little of the passage 
of time. So it was that Perry said to him at once, 
“ I hear you joined the church on Sunday, Albin.” 

“ I joined in the Lord’s Supper, if that is what 
you mean.” 

“Yes,” said Perry, seriously enough perhaps in 
his tone; “ and what did you do that for ? ” / 

“ I did it,” said Albin, more seriously, — “I did it 
for this. Perry : that the next time you ask me to 
take a glass of brandy and water with you, I may 
say ‘ No.’ ” 

The words are worth recording, because they are 
a pretty simple statement of his feeling that he did 
not so much profess religion as confess weakness, 
and that he wanted the strength of the great com- 
pany of Christians to help him out when he was 
tempted. Most of all, he wanted the constant 
feeling of the sympathy and abiding love of his 
Saviour and the Saviour of the world. And it was 
pleasant to him to think that that Saviour did not 


236 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


want to leave the world, himself forgotten. He 
did not choose or want to leave any mere code or 
organized system. He wanted to be remembered 
himself And so it was that he had said to Albin 
Crowell and to Harry Perry, among others, that he 
wished they would break a bit of bread and pass a 
cup from hand to hand, especially in remembrance 
of him. 

Albin and his sister became more and more to 
each other. There was no confidence which he 
could give to any one which he did not give to 
her ; and she would have said the same thing. 
She told him everything, and she asked for every- 
thing. How much stronger and how much happier 
he was for this absolute companionship, it is im- 
possible to say. His life enlarged on every side; 
and the simplest things he had to do, even at the 
forge and in the works, took on a new interest and 
life, because he found she was so much interested 
in his success, had so much sympathy with his 
experiments, and loved so to have him describe 
to her what he was doing. Much more than this, 
he found he was taking a new interest in his men, 
— in the boys and girls who were engaged in what 
may be called the elementary work in the mill. 
He took a sort of personal interest, which he found 
grew upon him more and more. He did not think 
of himself as a man who was making money, so 
much as a man who was gaining a position where 


THIS DO IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME. 


237 


be was helping these boys and girls to be men and 
women. And as one and another year passed by, 
it seemed to him and it seemed to Dorothy that 
they could see that this mill itself, with all its 
clatter and smoke and confusion, was a sort of 
training-school, in which men and women were 
living a purer and better life than they would 
have lived had they not come into companion- 
ship with those crashing engines, and if they had 
not been united in the great duty wliich that mill 
rendered to the world. 

“ However that may be,” said Dorothy to Albin 
one day, after a brisk canter, when they were talking 
of these years, while the horses were breathing, “ I 
know there are two people who are better for the 
mill’s work, and happier too.” 

And Albin laughed, and said it would not be 
hard to find those two people just then. 


Albin Crowell was not a person who talked easily 
or much on the abstract subject of Eeligion, as per- 
haps the reader has seen. But his own experience 
in the Lord’s Supper made it easier for him to say 
to one and another companion of his own age, just 
what he had said to his sister, that if they wanted 
to remember their Saviour more heartily, it would 
be as well for them to try to do so in the method 
he himself proposed to them when he left the 


238 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


world. It happened one day, that as he fell in 
with Harry Perry in the street, Perry, who had 
been passing through some experience of special 
trial at home, reminded him that he had said this. 
Albin saw at once that the words had made a cer- 
tain lodgment in the young fellow’s mind, — not 
always thoughtless, for no man’s mind is. He 
tried to find why it was that Perry had witlidrawn 
himself generally from such associations as the 
‘‘Christian Endeavor,’’ and from other young people’s 
meetings when Dr. Sheldon had proposed them. 
“ You certainly are not on the devil’s side,” said 
Crowell ; “ why not say frankly that you are on 
the Lord’s?” 

“ Well, I will tell you,” said Perry, simply. “It 
is because I am of no great account anyway, and 
I do not choose to pretend to be. When you join 
this church you help the church ; there is no need 
of pretending you do not. You are the son of 
your father. You are a person who carries infill - 
ence and deserves respect in this community. 1 
am plain Perry, — no more if no less. If I offered 
to represent the town in the Legislature, everybody 
would laugh ; why, if I spoke at a school-meeting, 
nobody would listen. It would be simply absurd 
for me to stand up and say I meant to join the 
church. ‘ Who are you ? ’ they would say ; and 
they ought to. I am not good enough, to begin 
with; and if I were, I am of no account anyway.” 


THIS DO IN KEiVIEM BRANCH OF ME. 


239 


Albin knew very well that this was not mock 
modesty. Nor was it wounded pride. It was 
spoken with a real feeling of Perry’s, that he would 
not interfere where he was of no use to others, and 
where so far he was not needed or wanted. Albin 
was overruled by a Spirit wiser than his own, and 
he attempted no argument. If he had tried any, 
he would have failed. 

“ Look here, Harry,” said he. “ Suppose you and 
I v/ere on a whaler, as Flanders is, to-day. Suppose 
we were out in a boat together, and some storm or 
current or something — Eobinson Crusoe fashion 
— smashed us on a coral reef Suppose some black 
fellows dashed in for us, and dragged us out of the 
water ; and then, as we straggled up on the beach, 
wet and frightened, suppose we saw they had a 
feast ready. Suppose we both thought they might 
be going to kill us, — eat us, if you please. 

“ If those fellows made us sit down at their festi- 
vity, and then one of them broke a bit of bread-fruit, 
and they passed it from hand to hand, and they all 
ate ; and if he then filled a cocoanut cup with milk, 
and they bowed their heads and prayed, and then 
one by one they drank of that, we should know by 
that token that they were Christians, — that they 
had heard Jesus Christ say, ‘ Do this in remem- 
brance of me,’ and that they were doing it. And, 
Harry, as sure as you live, when that bread-fruit 
and milk were handed to you and me, we should 


240 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


eat and we should drink. You would, as simply 
and as certainly as I should. You would know 
that they would know by that token that you 
loved and respected the Saviour of mankind ; and 
you would eat of the bread and drink from the 
cup. 

“ Now, I think it is a little mean to do a thirg 
off there, in presence of a handful of savages, which 
I do not do here in presence of my own people.” 

“ I believe you are right,” said Perry, after a 
minute. And he went to Mr. Sheldon, who as- 
sured him that Crowell was right. From that 
time forward Harry Perry took the comfort and 
gained the strength of the company who join each 
other in agreeing to break a bit of bread together, 
and to drink from the same cup, “ In remembrance 
of me.” 


By Kedron's Banks. 


rT was on an afternoon of a day in the week be- 
fore Easter that an American party encamped 
in the neighborhood of the convent of Mar-Saba, 
which stands in the very heart of the wilderness 
on the shore of the Dead Sea. 

Two stone towers crown the height of the ravine, 
while the buildings of the convent stretch down its 
rocky walls, tilling in the crevices of the desolate 
slope as if it were a part of the mountain-side. It 
seems scarcely to give an air of habitation to the 
bare scenery around, for its inhospitable doors open 
with reluctance. Women are not allowed to enter 
the convent ; and weary travellers, who make a 
camping-ground near its walls, are compelled to 
pay a large price for the fresh water, wdiich can 
only be obtained from the monks within. 

But though the scene was a desolate one, Mrs. 
Eerguson found herself glad to rest after her day’s 
journey ; and she enjoyed the wild picturesqueness 
of the landscape, while her husband and other gen- 
tlemen of the party went into the convent with 
some boys who were travelling with them. She 
16 


242 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


was placed comfortably in lier steamer-chair. Her 
younger sister, meanwhile, was occupied with her 
box of water-colors, which she always carried at her 
saddle-bow, for painting the exquisite flowers that 
grew profusely round them, even under the horses' 
feet as they came along. 

It seems to me,” said Mrs. Ferguson to her 
sister, '‘that the wilder the scenery becomes, the 
more beautiful and various are the flowers we find.” 

“ Such a contrast, indeed,” exclaimed Eleanor, “do 
these brilliant glowing anemones make, with these 
bare hills without a green leaf! They look as if 
their rocky sides were all filled in with nothing but 
yellow sand; but when you come near, here are 
growing these gorgeous poppies and gay anemones, 
as if to tell us that there is not any place that is 
really a desert ! ” 

Towards evening the camp was disposed for the 
night, the party had returned from the convent, and 
Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson lingered for a talk. 

“ I am anxious about Ivan,” said Mr. Ferguson 
to his wife; “I have not liked his manner of late. 
He has seemed to take no interest in our wander- 
ings here. I thought he would be especially pleased 
with this week of camping out, but he has given me 
no opportunity to talk with him of all the inter- 
esting and exciting places we have been passing 
through.” 

“ I have noticed it,” said Mrs. Ferguson, continu- 


ON THE BANKS OF THE KEDRON. 


243 


ing in a low voice ; “ and he lias avoided me con- 
stantly the last day or two, when before we have 
always been such good friends. It has grieved me 
very much,” 

“ I am sorry that the Melvilles decided to come 
on with us to Mar-Saba,” said Mr. Ferguson. “ I do 
not like those Melville boys at all ; and they really 
gave us trouble in the convent, with their under- 
tone remarks about the monks, trying to ridicule 
them. I forced one of them to walk by my side, 
that I might keep him in order.” 

“ I think they are as bad as the Connington 
boys,” said Mrs. Ferguson; ‘'and I hoped we were 
rid of all such influence when we left them behind 
at Alexandria.” 

“I am sorry,” sighed Mr. Ferguson, “to find that 
Ivan is so susceptible to such influences. It will 
always make the care of him the more difficult, if 
we must be always watching his companions.” 

“ He has till now led such a quiet life with his 
mother,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “that I suppose he 
has never known what an evil influence is. But 
I cannot believe that his memories of her would 
lade away so soon. And I am disappointed that in 
all these places which we are visiting, he is not con- 
stantly reminded of her. He knows that she begged 
me to come to Syria, for she could not bear that 
I should go home to America without storing up 
the remembrances of all these places. I know she 


244 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


must have been in the habit of talking to him of 
her visit here, and of the deep impression it made, 
as long ago she used to talk of it with me.” 

Ivan was the son of her husband’s brother, who 
had long lived in India. His father had died a 
year ago, and the Fergusons were taking him home 
to America with them. They had been on a long 
journey around the world, and it was during their 
last winter’s stay in Calcutta that Ivan’s mother 
had also died. She had been an old friend of Mrs. 
Ferguson’s, to whom she was glad to bequeath her 
only son. Mrs. Ferguson, in the long talks she held 
with her sister-in-law, had promised gladly to love 
and care for her child. All through the last winter 
they had spent with his mother, Mr. and Mrs. Fer- 
guson had learned to love Ivan, and were looking 
forward to bringing him up as their own son. It 
was only within a few weeks that they had felt any 
uncertainty that they could win Ins affections. On 
the voyage in the English steamer from Calcutta to 
Suez he had fallen into the company of the hoys of 
whom Mrs. Ferguson had spoken in her talk at 
night with her husband at Mar-Saba. They belonged 
to an Euglish family who were returning home, and 
whom they left at Alexandria. 

Before this meeting with the Conningtons, Ivan 
had seemed to transfer all his love for his father 
and mother to Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson. He was 
evidently very fond of his aunt, and liked to 


ON THE BANKS OF THE KEDKON. 


245 


have her talk to him of her old friendship for his 
mother, of his father, and of their old home in 
America, and of the home he should find with them 
on their return. 

The conversation of Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson was 
interrupted, as it was necessary for them to go back 
to their tents and prepare for the night. Five other 
camps with their travelling-parties had collected 
from different directions around the same spot. The 
Melvilles’ encampment was disposed next to that of 
the Fergusons. All was silent now. The horses were 
lying in a circle round the tents ; the Bedouin at- 
tendants were asleep, their heads resting upon the 
saddles of their mules ; only the dragoman of each 
party was awake. Notliing could be heard but the 
deep breathing of the horses, a little motion now and 
then among the mules, a whisper here and there. 
The flags above were waving lazily over the tents 
in the dim moonlight, and the dark shadows of the 
gloomy tow^ers stretched across the encampment. 

It was at an early hour that the party set forth. 
It was a busy time when the several camps broke 
up, and farewells were taken from the friends who 
had been made the night before, and who were to 
pass on in another direction. 

Mrs. Ferguson found the path very slippery for 
her horse’s feet. 

“ I wish this smooth rock would not slant two 
ways at once,” she exclaimed. Up and down one 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 




must expect in a mountain ; but to slide down at 
the side, into a ravine too, is a little dizzying.” 

One of the Bedouin guides was appointed to lead 
her horse along the slippery places ; but she was 
forced to -shut her eyes in the most difficult parts 
of the road, as they went on all the long morning 
under a hot sun that was reflected from the sand- 
colored sides of the mountains. 

She was pleased when Ivan occasionally left his 
horse, to walk by her side and lead her away from 
the edge of the precipice. 

But there was no opportunity for conversation. 
The horses and mules followed each other at cara- 
van pace ; and it was only now and then, when the 
path became a little wider, that there could be an 
occasion for an exchange of words. 

“ What a wild scene ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Ferguson, 
when'she had such an opportunity. “ One feels as if 
this might be the very place at which Balaam’s 
ass met with the angel which ‘ stood in a narrow 
place, where was no way to turn, either to the right 
hand or to the left.’ It is no wonder Balaam’s foot 
was crushed against the wall.” 

“I was just thinking,” said Mr. Ferguson, “that 
we were passing through the country which was 
overlooked by Balaam from ‘ the top of the rocks 
and from the hills.’ The guides were just pointing 
out to me that among the liills opposite is the 
place where the Arabs believe that Moses is buried; 


ON THE BANKS OF THE KEDRON. 


247 


and you can see, even now, a procession of Mo- 
hammedans making their yearly pilgrimage to the 
spot.” 

On and on they went along the narrow rocky 
footpath, that brought them to the plains in which 
the Dead Sea lay. 

As they saw it, with a clear blue sky above and 
the waters of a soft blue, there was nothing forbid- 
ding in its aspect. The path that led to it was 
skirted by high tamarisk bushes with lilac-colored 
blossoms, but no shadow could be found from the 
hot sun of the noonday. It was a lonely shore, — 
no village, no tent to be "seen; the convent of Mar- 
Saba far away; the only moving objects, those of 
their own party. Mr. Ferguson and some of the 
boys tried bathing in the waters of the sea, finding 
it as buoyant as it has been described, so that it 
Avas difficult to keep under the water, which left an 
incrustation of salt upon the skin which they were 
glad afterwards to wash off in the waters of the 
Jordan. 

Mrs. Ferguson was parched with thirst, and the 
waters of the sea looked so tempting that she could 
not resist stooping and dipping up with her hand a 
draught of it, forgetting for a moment that this was 
indeed the Dead Sea. Her parched and dry lips 
found it nauseous indeed, like Dead Sea apples, — 
sweet to the eye, but bitter to the taste.” 

On they Avenb through a desert region. Not a 


248 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


tree nor bush, — no shadow of leaf or rock, but a 
wide expanse of hot sand for three hours, till at 
last they reached a grove of poplars and birches, 
exquisite and soft in their spring greenness, and 
gladly they rested for a lunch by the beautiful 
banks of the Jordan. No wonder that the Israel- 
ites greeted these shores with joy, after their weary 
wanderings in the wilderness. 

Then another night of camping out, on the bor- 
ders of the Brook Cherith, on the site of the old 
town of Jericho. 

“ Our last day of camp travelling,” said Mrs. Fer- 
guson, as they mounted their horses next day. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Ferguson. “ We have been using, 
the last two days, the Old Testament for our guide- 
book ; but to-day we shall come back into the actual 
walks of the disciples, — along the very way they 
used to approach Jerusalem.” 

“And we are passing through the very scene in 
which the parable of the Good Samaritan is laid,” 
said Mrs. Ferguson. For the guide had just pointed 
out to her the walls of an old deserted inn, or klian, 
that still serves for the rest of weary travellers, as 
it might once have done for the wounded man of 
the story ; and the wild valleys that lead to it are 
still infested with robbers. 

The mountains began to grow less desolate, and 
were covered with fresh green grass ; and once there 
came straying down the hillside a shepherd carry- 


ON THE BANKS OF THE KEDBON. 


240 


in^ a young lamb in his arms, dressed himself with 
skins round about him, and looking like the beau- 
tiful picture of the “ Christus Consolator.” This 
was just before they passed the town of Bethany, to 
meet with what Mrs. Ferguson considered the most 
beautiful view she had ever seen. 

They turned the slope of Mount Olivet, which 
they had just reached, when they found themselves 
suddenly face to face with the beautiful city of 
Jerusalem. It rose opposite them at the angle of 
the two valleys of Jehoshaphat and Kedron, which 
came towards them ; the city standing high at this 
point, like the prow of a ship coming to meet them, 
with the two deep ravines like deep water on either 
side, closing up below. It seemed far away in a 
sort of golden haze, yet they could distinguish 
clearly the minarets glistening in the light of the 
setting sun. The picturesque Mosque of Omar rose 
with its gilded domes in the midst of the green 
enclosure that used to form the courts of Solomon’s 
Temple, whose shining roofs must have been seen 
from here. 

A sudden exclamation came from all the party 
when the view flashed upon them, as they passed 
round the corner of the mountain. 

“ This must have been the very spot,” Mr. Fergu- 
son exclaimed, which Jesus reached when he too 
came from Bethany, and cried out, ' 0 Jerusalem, 
Jerusalem ! thou that killest the prophets, and 


250 SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 

/ 

stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often 
would I have gathered thy children together, even 
as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wdngs, 
and ye would not.’” 

“Let us stay here awhile,” said Mrs. Ferguson 
“ It seems almost the crowning point of our whole 
pilgrimage. I can imagine that here the Crusaders 
had their first sight of Jerusalem ! Do you remem- 
ber Tasso’s beautiful Italian words, that he puts 
into the mouth of his Crusaders when first they 
see the Holy City (Eleanor was repeating them 
last night) : ‘ Ah, my hard heart, if that thou weep’st 
not now, forever shouldst thou weep.’ ” 

“Let us read here,” said Mr. Ferguson, “the 
history of that last night upon the Mount of 
Olives. We can venture to reach our tents a little 
later, for after the sunset will come the almost full 
moon of next Sunday and Easter.” 

It was the hour before sunset, and the towers of 
the city were reflecting the brilliant glow of the 
sky. 

Their tent equipage had already passed them 
during their noon rest, and some of their travel- 
ling-companions went by them, while others of 
the friends whom they had made on their pilgrim- 
age, stayed with them, as Mrs. Ferguson read to 
them, from the close of the' Gospel of Saint Luke, the 
account of the very last days of the life of Christ, 
and of that last night upon the Mount of Olives. 


ON THE BANKS OF THE KEDRON. 


251 


“ It all seems so solemn, and yet beautiful in its 
sadness,” . said Mrs. Ferguson, as they went on to 
their encampment, “ and one feels willing to con- 
secrate here all the memories that the church tra- 
ditions have gathered about this hour. We shall 
feel to-night as if it were this very same moon that 
lighted then this slope of the Mount of Olives. 
It seems almost as if some of these same old olive- 
trees could have been living then.” 

They found their tents awaiting them, and their 
dinner prepared, for they were to spend a last night 
of encampment outside the walls of the city, near 
the entrance of the Golden Gate, on the banks of 
the Kedron. As they broke up from their dinner, 
some of their fellow-travellers passed by them to 
go on into Jerusalem. The Melvilles came to bid 
them good-by ; they were going into Jerusalem to 
pass the night at a hotel near the further gate, that 
they might start early in the morning, as they were 
in a hurry to reach a steamer that was to leave 
Jaffa for Alexandria. 

All was now quiet ; and Mrs. Ferguson sat with 
her sister, watching the shadows from the moon- 
light along the picturesque walls opposite them. 
Suddenly Mr. Ferguson missed Ivan. ^‘Have you 
seen him lately ? ” he asked of his wife. 

She remembered that he left with the Melvilles, 
when they bade good-by after dinner. “ He must 
have gone with them as far as the gate,” said Mrs. 


252 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


Ferguson. “ It is not possible he can have gone to 
the city with them,” she exclaimed suddenly. 

“ I am much displeased if he has done so without 
informing us,” said Mr. Ferguson. “ But do not feel 
anxious ; we shall find him in the morning.” 

He was, however, himself exceedingly anxious, 
though he tried not to betray his feelings to Mrs. 
Ferguson. He made careful inquiries of his drago- 
man, and of others among their attendants ; and at 
last one of his own men confessed to him that Ivan 
had gone into Jerusalem with the Melvilles, and 
that “the young master” had paid him some money 
for not saying anything about it. It was too late 
to follow him ; the gates of the city were closed for 
the night, and it would be difficult, if not impossi- 
ble, to gain an entrance. Mr. Ferguson, much dis- 
turbed, walked up the slope of the hill beneath the 
shadow of the trees cast by the moonlight, dreading 
to go back and tell his fears to his wife. 

Suddenly he met a figure hastily rushing towards 
him down the hill. As he came into the moonlight 
he recognized Ivan. 

“My father — Mr. Ferguson!” he cried, as he 
flung himself upon him. 

“It is you ! It is Ivan I” exclaimed Mr. Ferguson. 

“ It is I! It is I ! ” cried Ivan. “ Will you take 
me back to you ? Do you know I was all ready to 
leave you, — you my best friend, — and this very 
night ! But just now, at that very last moment be- 


ON THE BANKS OF THE KEDRON. 


253 


fore the parting I had planned, I heard those last 
words read. I remembered how my mother had 
read them to me, and how she had told me of just 
such a night as this that she passed outside of Jeru- 
salem. I hurried away with the Melvilles to tell 
them that I could not go with them, that I would 
not leave you ; but oh ! I could not then come to 
tell you of my own treachery. I hurried up here to 
find the very spot where Judas found his Master, 
and then in the moonlight I seemed to hear the 
words, 'What! Judas, dost thou betray thy Master 
with a kiss?’ And then I loathed myself ; for it was 
with a kiss I meant to bid you good-by, and ask 
your permission to leave with the Melvilles. But 
I meant to leave you forever, my best friend ; and 
if you would not let me go, I had paid Elias money, 
some money, — yes, I had bought his treachery to 
you, — that he might not tell you that I was plan- 
ning to escape in the early morning.” 

In the midst of the boy’s sobs and confessions, 
Mr. Ferguson learned that his plans had been of 
long standing, and carefully made. He had agreed 
with Mr. Connington that he should join him later 
in Alexandria, by a steamer for Jaffa, and go with 
him to England. Mr. Connington had, indeed, once 
been an old friend of his father, who, however, had 
long ago learned to distrust him, and had aban- 
doned all communication with him. But meeting 
with Ivan, in the long voyage to Suez, Mr. Con- 


254 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


nington was glad to take the occasion that he found, 
to insinuate himself into the boy’s confidence, and 
persuade him that his father had always intended 
to make him his guardian, as indeed at one time 
he might have done. 

A part of this disclosure was made in the tent, 
on their return to Mrs. Ferguson. 

" Ah, my dear mother’s friend ! ” cried the boy, 
“I should have been blacker than Judas if I had 
so betrayed all your kindness to me!” 

He went on to tell that it was the Melville boys 
who had opened his eyes to the baseness of his 
plans : “ They were so low in their thoughts ; they 
spoke with such blasphemy of all the places and 
thoughts my mother had taught me to revere I Be- 
fore, I had fancied there was something romantic 
and courageous in my scheme ; but now I loathed 
them all so, yet feared to part -with them, or to 
break up the plan, lest it should seem that I was 
cowardly. But to-night the blackness of all came 
over me; the solemnity of this place, and indeed 
the love I have for you, have held me back, if only 
you will take me once more into your love, and if 
you will help to make me worthy of it.” 

“ In this place,” said Mr. Ferguson, where that 
tenderest Friend of all was forsaken and betrayed, 
it is here, Ivan, that I can believe you have learned 
what it is to be false to those who love you best. 
For, indeed, the treachery to a friend is the saddest 


ON THE BANKS OF THE KEDKON. 


255 


treachery of all ; and we can believe that Judas 
himself felt this, and that to himself he appeared as 
black a sinner as he seems to us. Your suffering 
of the last few hours you surely will never forget ; • 
and we too will consecrate this solemn hour, and 
hold it sacred as the one in which we adopt you as 
our son.” 



• V 4 



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V 






I 




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Without a Cause. 


' V "'HE tall palms loomed up in the distance, 
^ feathery and soft in the pale moonlight, but 
scraggy, coarse, and ungraceful in the broad glare 
of midday. A tiny grove of banana-trees rustled 
its broad leaves behind a thatched mud cottage. 
Bright flowers dazzled the eye, scattered here and 
there in wild patches. A hedge of cactus, prickly 
and rugged, formed a half-broken bouudary on one 
side. A peacock spread his tail in the hot sunshine, 
and strutted up and down. Occasionally, a wild 
bird called in the rough, inharmonious notes of the 
tropics. The picture was not unpleasant. It was 
wild and picturesque to the two people who sat on 
the shaded veranda talking. Homelike it certainly 
was not ; but had other surroundings been no more 
unpleasant than the scenery, the brave-hearted little 
woman who was speaking would not have given 
way to the terrible fit of homesickness which had 
overtaken her and made for the moment everything 
look unlovely. 

“ I cannot bear it, Henry. Why did we come ? 
and a half-sob escaped Agnes. “ Let us go home ] 
17 


258 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


We need not stay here unless we choose, need 

wer- 

Henry Farmer looked lovingly and sadly at his 
young wife. He did not answer for a moment. He 
could not, for many conflicting feelings arose and 
kept him silent. At last he said : “No, Agnes 
dear, we need not stay. There is no compulsion 
but our own will and sense of duty. We have 
taken no irrevocable vow to remain here. We 
have come to take up our life’s work. Ought we 
to throw it over because we are unhappy now ? 
Ought we not rather to live down this distrust, this 
enmity toward us ? Shall we not get a hold on 
these people then that we can never lose? No, 
Agnes, I do not think we ought to give way so 
easily. We must ‘fight the good fight.’ Take 
courage, little wife. You will yet win these people 
to you ; and while you and I are spared to each 
other we will not repine, but take up the work 
the good God has sent to us, and try to do his 
will.” 

Agnes lifted her head, not quite ready to accept 
this decision ; but her husband’s face was full of 
earnest purpose, and she felt in her heart that she 
must make light of her burden, and be the help 
to him she had pictured so often and vowed so 
solemnly. 

A year ago, Henry Farmer, fresh from his studies, 
with a pure, high sense of God’s love to him, and 


THEY HATED ME WITHOUT A CAUSE. 259 

his duty to lift where best he was fitted in God’s 
great work, had decided to go as missionary to a 
field yet new and almost removed from civilization. 
The dangers and trials of the life he realized. Not 
so the sweet, young Agnes Hall to whom he was 
engaged to he married. Deeply religious, but al- 
ways shielded from the trials of life so far as loving 
parents and wealth could shield her, it seemed to her 
as if no life could be so much to her tastes as a mis- 
sionary life. In vain did her friends point out the 
hardships. She felt sure she could endure them 
all. In vain did Henry, torn by love for her and 
by his strong sense of duty, try to show her that at 
least he had better go and “ prepare the way.” She 
knew that her love for Henry and the work in God’s 
service would carry her through aU troubles and 
trials that might come to her. And Henry, feeling 
his own need of her companionship, at last gave up 
urging her to wait, and joyfully made preparations 
for the future. 

A quiet little wedding, a few weeks spent in 
saying good-byes to their friends, a long sea-yoyage, 
a hard ride by coaches and mules, sometimes a 
walk in dangerous paths, and the young couple ar- 
rived at last in the little settlement of Sapu. This 
was to be their future home, twenty-five miles 
away from the nearest missionary station, among a 
people apparently peaceful, but wild and untaught. 
These two, all in all to each other, separated from 


260 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


everything they had ever known, settled down to a 
life all new and all untried. 

The little mud cottage was filled with light and 
love. It' became a palace to them. A colored boy 
from the missionary station came up to live with 
them, and procured the necessary comforts. Life 
ran very smooth and easy for a while. Agnes filled 
the rooms with wild-flowers that grew within her 
walks ; the native birds flew in and out the open 
windows, even venturing to light on the picture- 
cords and chirp a bright good-morning. New things 
were on all sides, and no moment was sad or 
lonely. 

But three months had passed ; and Henry, coming 
in that morning, had repeated to himself, not know- 
ing Agnes overheard him, “ Truly they have hated 
me without a cause.” The sentence fell heavily on 
Agnes’s ears. She liad not been entirely blind for 
some days past. It seemed to her that the few 
natives who came to supply their daily wants had 
looked askance at her, and had behaved ungra- 
ciously. She had tried to attribute this to her igno- 
rance of their ways, and to think perhaps it was her 
own fault. Some weeks before, she had endeavored 
to start a little school ; but the children were shy of 
coming, and once a little boy had called her by a 
contemptuous name. Her heart sank as she heard 
Heniy utter these words. Many, many things came 
t(' her mind, — little things, hitherto unnoticed, but 


THEY HATED ME WITHOUT A CAUSE. 261 


now full of meaning. But she saw that her hus- 
band was much disturbed, and she appeared not to 
notice what he had evidently intended she should 
not hear. Her thoughts were busy. She grew more 
and more sad as the day went on; and after lunch, 
in the noontide rest upon the veranda, she had at 
last broken down, as we have seen. 

While they were yet talking earnestly, a sound 
was heard, and some half-naked savages came across 
the path. They walked up to the veranda, and 
then Henry saw that one of their number was borne 
between them. He was evidently ill with fever. 

The spokesman — a tall, well-formed half-Indian 
fellow — came forward. “ White padre cure To- 
maso. Tomaso sick ; Tomaso die. White padre 
cure Tomaso, or white padre no good ; ” and the 
tall savage looked at Henry with wickedness in 
his face. 

Henry did not flinch, but with. a silent prayer 
for help, and a glance of encouragement at Agnes, 
walked down the steps, and in his earnest, musical 
voice began to talk with the Indians. He could 
get no satisfaction; only, the white padre must cure 
Tomaso. 

Agnes ran for a mat and the few things she felt 
sure Henry would want. The sick man was laid in 
the shade on the veranda, and the tender ministra- 
tions of love began. Two Indians remained, and 
with hideous grimaces occasionally talked to each 


262 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


other, and watched carefully every movement. Ag- 
nes hathed the hot head and hands, while Henry 
gave such simple remedies as he had in his medi- 
cine chest. When night came, Henry swung his 
hammock on the veranda, ordered his boy to bring 
mats for the two Indians, and prepared for the 
night. At first the ludians would not take their 
eyes from their sick companion, but at intervals 
repeated with threatening gestures, “ White padre 
cure Tomaso ; ” and Henry was left in doubt 
what would be the result if the “ white padre ” 
failed. 

So the night wore on, and many more nights, in 
the same way. Tomaso did not improve, neither did 
he grow worse. The fever was evidently having its 
course. But each day the watching brothers grew 
more impatient, and each day Henry and Agnes 
prayed that if it were God’s will, Tomaso might be 
restored to health. 

Agnes grew strong as the trial came. She nursed 
the boy (for he was a mere lad) with the devotion of 
a mother. She forgot her fear in her pity for him, 
and her pity was turned to a tender love for the 
ignorant savage. Tomaso always knew her, always 
smiled at her, and seemed to want her near. 

At last the crisis came. From wild delirium, 
when no one but Agnes could calm him, and while 
Henry was trying by every means in his power to 
quiet the excited brothers, who had never left To- 


THEY HATED ME WITHOUT A CAUSE. 263 


maso only as one or the other went for food, the 
sick boy sank into a heavy sleep, to wake calm and 
collected, and call for the Senora. Eufino and San- 
tiago sprang to their feet as the word “ Senora ” fell 
on their ears. They gave dark looks at poor Agnes, 
and began to talk between themselves. 

Agnes, at the call, hastened quickly to his side, 
gave him his medicine, and in a low tone began 
gently to sing him off to sleep. Absorbed in what 
she did, she did not notice Santiago quietly slip 
away, but with a full heart she thanked God that 
the danger was over. Eufino did not wait much 
longer. He too stole away, with no word or look 
of thanks to the two beings who had nursed and 
cared for his brother, when they had given up all 
hope. 

“ Ah, Henry,” said Agnes, when they were dis- 
cussing their strange conduct, ‘‘ it has been a hard 
trial to us both. We owe our lives to his recovery. 
Venancio says they do not always use the same 
words as do the Indians at Chouga, but that one 
night he overheard Santiago say that if the white 
padre did not cure Tomaso, they would kill him. 
But that is all over now. They will love you now ; 
and already Tomaso has become attached to us. 
But I do not understand why they went away so 
suddenly.” 

Agnes dear, you have already borne a heavy 
strain. Can you bear a little more ? I must tell 


264 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


you all ; for soon it must come, and if help does not 
reach us we must he prepared for the worst. They 
went away silently to prepare for war, — war on us. 
We have not knowingly done them any harm. We 
have done all the good we could. Had Tomaso 
died, they would have said we killed him, and they 
would have attacked us. But Tomaso lives, and 
they say — Oh, Agnes, they say you have be- 
witched him, and that he called for you and you 
only ; and they now have turned their spite against 
you, my beloved Agnes, who have almost given 
your life for his sake.” 

The color left Agnes’s face, and for the moment 
she seemed stunned. “ And — and — what more ? ” 
she gasped. 

“Nothing more to alarm you, darling. The men 
have gone for their companions in the next settle- 
ment, — a full half-day’s journey from here. Over 
in the distance, do you see a moving spot ? Look, 
away out on the plain by the edge of the bushes ! 
Thank God ! they have come. They are the brave 
men from the mission station who are on their 
way here. Do not falter now, Agnes darling. The 
worst is over. I sent for the men two days ago, 
fearing some trouble ; and it seems I was only just 
in time. Let -us now do for Tomaso what we can, 
and leave the rest in the hands of God. Be not 
afraid ! At the earliest, our enemies will not return 
before morning ; and when they see we are prepared 


THEY HATED ME WITHOUT A CAUSE. 265 

to meet them, they will leave us in peace. You 
were right, clear. We will not stay where our lives 
are endangered. It is not right to keep you here. 
As soon as Tomaso’s friends come for him, we will 
go to Chouga, and for the present live in the Mis- 
sion House there.” 

For. a long time that night Henry and Agnes 
talked and planned. Then, worn out with fatigue 
and excitement, Agnes fell asleep. Henry crept 
from the room, spoke ' to tlie men, and returning 
made everything fast for the night. 

Before the sun rose, Henry was dressed and look- 
ing about the house. Everything was quiet. The ' 
sick man was sleeping calmly in the little side 
room where he had been moved, away from the 
out-door dampness which preceded the season of 
heavy rains. The sky began to show the glowing 
colors of the sunrise. The tall palms were waving 
gently in the early fresh breeze. The fowls were 
just making their morning calls. The flowers, wet 
with the heavy dampness of the night, were lifting 
their heads to Heaven with fresh strength for a 
fresh day. The calm was the calm of a tropical 
morning, when nothing disturbs the feeling of per- 
fect rest and peace. 

The men from the mission station, fatigued with 
their long journey, slumbered heavily on the ve- 
randa. There was no token of war. All was 
peaceful; and Henry prayed that God would give 


266 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


them all his spirit of love, and quell the selfish 
passions in the bosoms of these ignorant savages. 

A moment more, and a sound in the banana grove 
attracted his attention. Did he see clearly? Were 
those shadows or real figures that seemed to move 
stealthily among the trees ? Great God ! is it really 
war ? Have these savages come to attack the home 
where all is love, — love to man as a brother, — 
where sacrifices unknown to them have been made, 
that they should be brought into the reign of light 
and love ? 

Henry paused, almost paralyzed ; but there was 
no moment to lose. With a glance at Agnes, sleep- 
ing still, and a silent prayer for her safety, he ran 
to the door and called the slumbering men. They 
were heavy with sleep ; but they roused themselves, 
and under his direction crept around the house. A 
moment of silence, and then the sound of guns and 
even closer w^arfare was heard. Louder and yet 
louder in the noisy, Spanish-Indian dialect grew 
the noise ; and Henry from his watch-post in front, 
which he did not dare leave, could hear the sounds 
of blows and scuffling. 

“ Agnes dear, keep quiet, — away from sight, in 
the house,” he called softly through the window, 
heavily shaded with vines, as he heard her moving 
within. All will be well ; only do not show your- 
self, and keep up a brave heart.” 

The din grew furious, and then all was quiet. 


THEY HATED ME WITHOUT A CAUSE. 267 


Low voices spoke now and then. Full of anxiety 
and fear, Henry waited and watched, fearing to 
leave the front of the house, where he alone stood 
guard. 

Housed from her sleep, Agnes had hastily dressed 
herself; hut warned by her husband, kept in the 
house. A low moan from Tomaso called her to 
him. She saw at a glance that Tomaso compre- 
hended the situation, though not the cause of it. 

“ Tomaso love Senora,” he said gently. Agnes 
recognized the sympathy of his voice, and raising 
him on his mat placed pillows under his head. At 
that moment a ^ark shadow fell across the sick 
boy, an arm was raised, and Agnes fell heavily to 
the floor. Tomaso, weak and trembling, fainted by 
her side, as Santiago, with a fierce imprecation, like 
an evil spirit glided from the room. 

As the day dawned fully, the sun shone no longer 
on the peaceful home of Henry and Agnes. One 
short hour, and everything was changed. Without, 
a group of Indians from the mission station cared 
for the wounded and dying. Santiago with one or 
two followers had escaped to the woods. Henry in 
agony bent over the dying Agnes, as Tomaso in 
broken words told the little that he knew. 

All this happened many years ago. In the little 
far-away mission-house at Sapu lives “ Padre En- 
rique,” as the natives call him. He is a gentle old 


268 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


man, whose life has been spent in their service. At 
his side a tall quiet Indian named Tomaso may be 
always seen. Together they live in the little mud 
cottage, with the banana grove behind it and the 
straggling cactus hedge at the side. From the ve- 
randa one sees the tiny cemetery of Sapu, with its 
vine-covered gate and hedge of wild roses. Within 
it is a pure white marble stone bearing the name 


AGNES FARMER. 

‘‘ They hated me without a cause.” 


At Ammergau. 



HE readers of these stories need not he told 


how it happened that Uncle Silas Gray, 
whom we saw in the first- chapter, had business 
duties which called him to Europe. As he was 
going to Europe, he made a holiday of it, as is the 
excellent habit of the people of his nation, and took 
with him two of his nieces and one of his nephews 
from the park in Colorado where we first met with 
them. Hor is it the business of this story to tell 
how these young people, who had been trained so 
well in the quiet of a valley of the Eocky Moun- 
tains, enjoyed the mountain life of Switzerland and 
of the Tyrol. Things are so alike, and they are so 
different ! They would sometimes come out on a 
group of mountaineers mending the road in some 
Swiss pass, and Uncle Silas would say that they 
were like so many New Englanders in the White 
Mountains. He would say that they seemed to be 
governed by the same laws, or rather to work in the 
same absence of law ; he would say that it seemed 
as if their clothes were bought in the same shops. 


270 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


And then, on the other hand, they would come to 
some piece of engineering, where money had been 
spent like water for the facility of travel, and it was 
clear enough that that money had not been raised 
by the taxes of the neighbors. The young people 
were wide awake, and enjoyed every moment. 

And it happened that this was the summer of 
1880 ; and 1880, as the year with a zero at the end, 
is one of the years when the simple mountain peo- 
ple of the Tyrol re-present, as they have done for 
more than one generation, the Passion Week. Now, 
that which anywhere else would strike serious 
people with a certain horror — the looking in visi- 
ble form upon a body of people trying to make real 
to the eye the varied scenes of the last week of the 
Saviour’s life — seems different in one of these val- 
leys, and with the simple Christian faith of theSe 
mountaineers. Indeed, the education of a hundred 
years has prepared them for this representation as 
for a very sacred religious service. The young 
people recollect, perhaps, the time when they scat- 
tered palm branches before the Saviour as he rode 
into the city ; and as they remember it, they know 
that the feelings with which they did so were 
feelings of genuine love and worship. As ten years 
pass between one of the services and another, these 
young people grow in grace as they grow in years ; 
and as another decimal year approaches, they are 
looking forward with a real hope that, when once 


TAKE YE HIM AND CRUCIFY HIM. , 271 

more they are permitted to join in this service, it 
may be so real as to quicken their life again. 

Uncle Silas meant to “ have the best,” as a na- 
tional proverb says, and he generally succeeded. In 
this case he had his nephew and his two nieces in 
a large, well-sprung travelling-carriage ; he had a 
very intelligent coachman, or “ driver,” who knew 
the country, and he had no professional guide or 
courier. 

As they slowly climbed the zigzag road which 
leads men up to the little village of Upper Ammer- 
gau, it often proved to be so steep that Uncle 
Silas and the young people would all walk them- 
selves, — if from mere shame and humanity to the 
horses. Above them on one side was the mountain, 
heavily clad with enormous old pine-trees. Below 
them on the other side there was the rattling, bab- 
bling stream, so far down that they could seldom 
see it, as it wound its way beneath a tunnel of 
boughs and leaves. Once and again some tablet or 
cross showed the place where an accident had hap- 
pened. There was one, more showy than the others, 
of which the inscription explained that two work- 
men had lost their lives there who were with the 
party which carried up King Ludwig’s memorial of 
his visit to Ammergau. 

It was a little after the young people had passed 
this monument that they came upon a youug 


272 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


Bavarian huntsman, as they always called him 
afterwards. “ He looked so like a huntsman in a 
picture,” Sarah said. They said nothing to him ; for 
he was kneeling, apparently in prayer, before a cross 
which stood there. He had on a pointed cap with 
a black cock’s feather, a green tunic with black 
frogs wrought upon it, and he wore leather breeches. 
Certainly he did look like a man in a picture. Tlie 
young people respected his devotion, passed silently 
on, and did not speak till they were out of his hear- 
ing. Then they sat together, on a fallen log, waiting 
for their uncle. 

As they sat, the huntsman passed them ; and then 
they saw that he limped badly. They found after- 
ward that he had turned his foot and sprained his 
ankle. He bowed to the children with a smile; 
they did the same to him, and he passed on. But 
they hated to see so active a man in evident pain ; 
and when Uncle Silas appeared, they eagerly told 
him of their huntsman,” and easily persuaded him 
to take him into the carriage when it came up. 
This would have been easy enough, for they were 
themselves walking" most of the time; but it was 
easily managed when they were all in the carriage, 
for the younger Silas did not dislike to ride witli 
August on his seat, so that the huntsman had Silas’s 
seat within. 

All which it is worth while to tell, because Fritz 
Kranach, the “ huntsman,” proved so agreeable and 


TAKE YE HIM AND CRUCIFY HIM. 273 

intelligent a guide in all their visit. They could 
talk in German quite well with him, and he liked 
nothing better than to try his English with them. 
No ; he was not one of the Ammergau people him- 
self. But he had no end of cousins there, he said. 
He remembered the representation of 1870, when he 
was quite a little fellow, and he was glad to come 
to this occasion. It was clear that he did not regard 
it as a mere sight to be seen. He spoke of it just 
as seriously as one of us might speak of going 
to the Sea of Galilee, to the Mount of Trans- 
figuration, or to the Way of Tears. He knew 
that the memories of ten years ago had done 
him good, and he hoped that now, with a larger 
Christian life and more knowledge of Scripture, 
this visit might be of even more service to 
him. 

On his part, when they all arrived in the little 
village, he was as careful of the travellers as they 
had been of him. He would not hear of their going 
to an inn; they must come to his uncle’s house, 
their horses must go to another uncle’s stable ; and, 
in a word, Uncle Silas and his party found them- 
selves guests of importance, treated, as Sarah wrote 
home, as if we had been kings and queens.” In 
fact, when Sunday came, and they witnessed the 
representation, they really sat in the seats pre- 
pared for the king and queen if the king and queen 
had been there. 


18 


274 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOBIES. 


And neither of the four travellers ever forgot that 
day. On a meadow, with high mountains beyond — 
still white with snow, so early was it in the summer, 
— were seats arranged in the open air for more than 
six thousand people; and every seat was full of 
people, who had come as to a great act of worship, 
in which they might never join again. There were 
a few travellers who had been called by curiosity, 
perhaps ; but the great body of people were sincere 
Christian men and women from the neighboring 
villages of mountain Bavaria. 

At eight o’clock Sunday morning all were quiet in 
their places. Suddenly a cannon sounded, and the 
great assembly, more than six hundred men, women, 
and children, who were to take part in the service, 
knelt in prayer. They were behind the curtain 
which hung in front of the assembly, but every one 
knew that they were in silent prayer. Certainly our 
little party prayed with them that this day might 
not be a poor exhibition, but might make the central 
struggle of all history more vivid and real. The 
company of those who directly participated in the 
service were six hundred and sixty men, women, and 
children, nearly half the villagers of Ober-Ammergau. 
A moment more, and a company representing angels 
of God came upon the elevated stage from the right 
and left, and stood silent, with folded arms, in an 
attitude of devotion. The prologue was read, and a 
chorus of praise followed. 


TAKE YE HIM AND CKUCIFY HIM. 275 

For the first time the curtain rose. A large 
tableau of figures, perfectly still, represented the 
expulsion from Paradise of Adam and Eve. A 
moment more, and the first act of sixteen in all, 
which represented the main events of Passion 
Week, was beginning before the eager eyes of six 
thousand people. They saw the descent from the 
Mount of Olives. They seemed to see the Saviour 
riding upon an ass. They saw hundreds of chil- 
dren throwing palms before him. They heard the 
Hosannas, — 

All hail ! all hail ! Great David’s Son, 

All hail ! all hail ! Thy Father’s throne 
Belongs to thee ! ” 

As this great company gathers, the curtain behind 
rises, and the groups of money-changers in the 
Temple courts are seen. Jesus orders them to be 
gone. He overthrows their tables ; and some doves, 
liberated in the fall, fly up and mount free in the 
air. Annas and Caiaphas appear, indignant; and 
the Saviour is seen to withdraw, on his way to the 
home of Martha and Mary. 

And thus began a day which for all this Amer- 
ican party was a day of profound religious experi- 
ence which no one of them ever forgot. Their young 
Bavarian friend was careful to explain everything 
in the language which they found difficult. Fifteen 
scenes from those seven days which are central in 


276 SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 

all history were produced before them. Each one 
was prefaced by “living pictures” studied from 
scenes in the Old Testament which had a parallel 
with these. As the afternoon drew to an end, 
while threatening clouds were darkening the valley, 
the scene which they had half longed for and half 
dreaded, which represented Calvary and the Cruci- 
fixion, began. 

In the last scene they had seen the sad pro- 
cession, with the two Marys with their friends, 
passing along the Way of Tears. They had seen 
Simon of Cyrene, as the soldiers compelled him to 
bear the heavy cross upon his shoulders. 

Now, as the curtain rose, there were two crosses 
elevated already ; upon them were wretched- 
looking men who represented the two thieves. A 
moment more, and the central cross, heavy in 
itself, and bearing the form of the Saviour, as if 
nailed to it, was slowly lifted and placed between 
the other two. The spectators could plainly see 
the nails in feet and hands. They could see the 
drops of blood flow from them and trickle down. 
They could read the inscription above, in its three 
languages, “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the 
Jews.” 

And this is no carved statue or painted figure, 
such as they had seen in galleries or at stations of 
prayer; this is a living sufferer. The people pass 
by him scoffing, and saying, “Ah, thou that de- 


TAKE YE HIM AND CRUCIFY HIM. 


277 


stroyest the temple, save thyself, and come down 
from the cross ! ” Some of the chief priests are 
there, mocking among themselves ; and they can he 
heard to say, “ He saved others ; himself he cannot 
save. Let Christ, the King, descend now from the 
cross, that we may see and believe.” And in the 
hush of silence after these sneers, the Saviour said, 
“ Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do.” 

You . could see the soldiers in front, parting out 
his clothing among themselves, and throwing lots 
for the cloak they could not divide. Then one of 
the thieves spoke to say, “ If thou be Christ, save 
thyself and us ! ” The other rebuked him, “ Dost 
not thou fear God, being in the same condemna- 
tion ? and we indeed justly, for we receive the 
due reward of our deeds : but this man has done 
nothing amiss. Lord, remember me "viLeu thou 
comest into thy kingdom.” And Jesus said to 
him, “ Verily, I say unto thee. To-day shalt thou 
be with me in paradise ! ” 

The afternoon was clouding over. Black clouds 
rested on the mountains beyond. Still it was not 
so dark but the eager spectators could see the figure 
of the young man John, whom they now knew well, 
as he led Mary and her sister near the cross ; and 
they could liear the words, “ Woman, behold thy 
son ! ” and to the young man, “ Behold thy mother.” 
Another pause, — how intense it was ! — and then 


278 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


they heard across the stillness, '‘Eloi, Eloi, lama 
sabachthani ! ” Another pause, and J esus gasps out, 
“ I thirst ! ” And one of the soldiers took a sponge, 
and soaked it in a vessel which stood by, and put it 
on a long reed and pressed it to his lips. Jesus 
said, “ It is finished ! ” His head dropped even 
more heavily than before. And the sad company, 
sobbing while they looked on, felt even a sense of 
relief that all was over. On the scene itself, the 
crowd is surprised by a lad who rushes in and calls 
the high-priest, who is there witnessing the tragedy', 
to tell him that the veil of the temple is rent 
in two. 

Then they saw soldiers come in with heavy ham- 
mers and break the legs of the dying thieves. They 
saw the by-play in which the centurion forbade them 
to do the same to the “ King of the Jews ; ” but a 
soldier, to make sure that he is dead, thrusts his 
lance into his side. The whole company shuddered 
as they saw the flow of blood which announced the 
certain wound. Then Nicodemus, Joseph of Arima- 
thea, and others, whom they now knew, came in 
with ladders and bandages, and tenderly lifted the 
body from the cross. 

Of what passed afterward that day our little 
company could give little account. It seemed as if 
they had been looking on the scene itself which 
is the centre of all history, and they could think 


TAKE YE HIM AND CRUCIFY HIM. 279 

of nothing else. As they went home with their 
Bavarian friend, they could say but little. Who- 
ever did speak, spoke of some incident connected 
with this representation of Calvary. The cen- 
turion’s grief, the agony of the women, the 
change of feeling of the crowd, — every detail 
came to these young people as it had never come 
before. 

“ Yes,” said their uncle, that evening, “ I think 
we shall read our Bibles the better that we have 
been here. I think we shall know better what 
pictures are, and types and parables. We shall 
understand what he meant when he spoke of 
parables.” 

And then Uncle Silas told them a story of a 
chief of the Ponca Indians whom he knew. He 
told it that the young people miglit know the value 
that a representation may have. It is not real, but 
it makes man know the truth. 

This Ponca Indian was not a Christian. His 
daughter was. She had been trained, and well 
trained, in a Christian school. She had gone home 
to do her best among her own people. Some friend 
had given her a large Bible with some pictures in 
it; and one day her father, who could not read, 
opened it to look at the pictures, and came to the 
representations of the Way of Tears and the Cruci- 
fixion. He asked his daughter what they meant, 
and she was glad to tell him. 


280 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


As her story closed, the old chief said, “ Did he 
do all that for me ? ” 

“ Yes, father; all that, and more ! ” 

“ Then I will never go back on him,” cried the 
old man. And from that day to this he has been 
enrolled among the Christians of his tribe. 


In Mexico. 


“ A MECAMECA!” shouted the conductor; and 
the train drew up at the platform of a small 
railway-station which looked much as such places 
do in New England. A few passengers alighted, 
and then the engine gave a little squeak and 
started off again, for this was only a way-station. 

“ Now, Kate, if you will look after the baggage 
I will run ahead and get the best rooms, for that 
hotel looks to me as if there were not many to 
spare. Miss Bessie, will you stop, and come over 
with my wife ? ” 

This was said by an American gentleman who 
had just left the car. He crossed over to the hotel 
directly opposite, leaving the two ladies who had 
accompanied him behind. Mrs. Jackson, in ex- 
cellent Spanish, gave directions about their small 
pile of baggage on the platform ; while Bessie Arm- 
strong stood by. She felt shy, for she did not 
know the Jacksons very well, and this was the 
first time she had been anywhere without her 
parents since they had been travelling in Mexico, 
or indeed in the whole course of her life, for Bessie 


282 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


was but thirteen. Her mother, Mrs. Armstrong, 
was in delicate health, and that was why they had 
left Hew England, — Bessie and her father and 
mother, — to avoid a harsh northern spring and enjoy 
the lovely equable climate of the plateau of Mexico. 
But it proved that Mrs. Armstrong was not well 
enough to bear going about much, and so their days 
and weeks had been pretty much spent in their 
cramped though pleasant rooms at the Caf4 Anglais 
in the City of Mexico. It was there they had met 
the kind, cordial Jacksons, who, pitying Bessie for 
her somewhat restricted life in the hotel, offered to 
take her with them on a little trip they were mak- 
ing. It was Holy Week, and they hoped to see at 
Amecameca, a little town almost wholly Indian, 
some of the religious ceremonies which the native 
Mexicans learned long ago from the fathers who 
came over with Cortez, or after him, when he con- 
quered the country and changed its superstition for 
the Christian faith. 

Mr. Jackson was writing a book about the Mexi- 
can Indians, and he wished to study their manners 
and customs. Bessie understood very little about 
all this ; but like any other girl, she was ready for 
an expedition anywhere. The capital, which had 
seemed to her at first wonderfully amusing, had 
begun to grow monotonous, and she was longing to 
be off. Still, now the time had come, she felt a 
little awkward. 


JESUS CRUCIFIED. 


283 


A small boy in a blue blouse, with very bright 
black eyes and gleaming white teeth, piled their 
three little portmanteaus on his back, and grasped 
all their shawl-straps and umbrellas in his hand, 
running thus loaded as lightly as a squirrel across 
the road to the hotel. Mrs. Jackson and Bessie 
followed him ; and at the open door they found Mr. 
Jackson, who called out : “ I was just in time. There 
are but two good rooms, and I snatched them for 
ourselves.” 

The Spanish-speaking landlord then came out, 
bowing and affable. The Jacksons always got on 
well with such people, for they used their Spanish 
to speak cordially to them, not asking for too much, 
but expecting the best that could be furnished, and 
thus they generally got it. 

“ It is a lovely apartment,” continued Mr. Jack- 
son. ''Now, Miss Bessie, be careful of the stairs.” 

They had passed through the lower room, — an 
odd-shaped place with a counter at one end, and at 
the other tables arranged for dining, — and now stood 
in another odd-shaped place, the patio. Bessie had 
seen enough Mexican houses to know that they are 
all built around an open space or courtyard, some- 
times beautifully planted with vines and orna- 
mented with fountains and trellises. 

This was a poor, neglected spot ; but there were 
rose-bushes and untrained vines in it. A long rickety 
stairway with a hand-rail led up the side of the 


284 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


house, and this they were to climb to reach their 
rooms. It led to a shaky piazza, upon which doors 
opened ; and the third or fourth door in the corner 
was the one which admitted them to their apart- 
ment. Bessie thought she had come to the worst 
place she ever was in. It was a large four-sided 
room ; but no wall w^as at right angles with any 
other, and the floor was not at right angles with the 
walls but slanted away into one corner. There was 
no carpet, and very little furniture ; two little iron 
beds, a washstand on three legs, each leg at a loss 
to And the floor, and a wooden chair or two were all. 
So Bessie was surprised when Mrs. Jackson said : 
“ This will do nicely. I had no idea we should be 
so comfortable.” 

As she was speaking she walked to the long win- 
dow which came to the floor, and throwing open the 
outside shutters exclaimed, “ Oh, how lovely ! ” 

Mr. Jackson, who stood by her with a very 
pleased face, called Bessie, saying, “ Is not that 
worth while ? ” 

Bessie saw for the first time, directly before her, 
without any intervening obstacles, the two great 
volcanoes, Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl. The 
view from this window is one of the very finest in 
the world. The mountains stood side by side, snow- 
capped, with clouds floating over them and below 
them, dark blue below the snow and then green 
towards the base, where the forests growing on them 


JESUS CRUCIFIED. 


285 


sloped down into a verdant valley. For foreground 
was the little village they had come to visit, and 
then flat fields coming close to their windows. A 
broad highway led from the hotel towards the vil- 
lage about a quarter of a mile away. 

Bessie had never seen anything like this wide 
panorama with noble peaks at the back of it. The 
volcanoes can be seen from the City of Mexico at 
certain high points, but not from the streets ; and 
whenever Bessie had been taken to look at them, 
their majesties had concealed themselves behind 
clouds, frequent at that season in Mexico. She 
forgot the roughness of the interior, and longed to 
stay forever at the window looking out at the moun- 
tains. So she was delighted to find that she had 
the same view from just such a window in her own 
little room adjoining. It was the shape of a piece 
of cheese, and about that size ; but she came in the 
course of a few days to love it very much. 

The next morning, which was Wednesday, Bessie 
was awakened in the early dawn by strange tramp- 
ling sounds below her window. She remembered 
the mountains, and sprang up to look at them. 
There they were, more majestic than before, with 
soft-tinted mist floating over them ; but her atten- 
tion was distracted by what was going by, in the 
road below. Crowds of Indians were swarming to 
the town from all the neighboring villages. They 
came in rude carts drawn by donkeys, on donkeys, 


286 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


or on foot; men, women, and children, laughing 
and talking as if they were off for a holiday. 

The Indians are the descendants of the Aztecs, 
or other Mexican tribes which Cortez found in 
Mexico when he came from Spain to conquer the 
country. The Spaniards called these natives In- 
dians, because they still thought that Columbus, 
when he discovered America, had sailed round the 
world to India ; for no one then dreamed that the 
world was large enough to have another continent 
in between two oceans. They are brown, with 
straight black hair, black eyes, and white teeth; 
very gentle and domestic in their habits, and read- 
ily taught by those civilized people who will take 
the trouble to show them how to improve. They 
live in neat houses made of clay, and take very 
good care of their children, who are merry little 
things, full of intelligence. 

Almost every Indian family possesses one hurro, 
or donkey ; and this obliging hurro carries them all 
on his back when there is a festival to go to. This 
festival of Holy Week is one of the very greatest 
celebrated in Mexico ; and Amecameca is one of 
the places where it is observed with the most 
solemnity. 

There was to be a great fair in honor of it in the 
market-place, and all these people were bringing 
their goods to sell, and their booths to put up, and 
their beds to sleep in, on the great square, ox plaza, 


JESUS CRUCIFIED. 


287 


of the little town. The women wore broad-brimmed 
straw hats decorated with bright flowers ; for pop- 
pies, sweet peas, and blue bachelor s buttons blos- 
som in Mexico all the year round, and so do roses, 
large, pink, and sweet, bright yellow wall-flowers, 
and orange marigolds. The brighter the better for 
the Indian women, who know perhaps that such 
gay tints enhance the glow of their brown complex- 
ions. Their black hair hung braided behind. They 
had for the most part red petticoats and loose white 
shirts, over each of which was wound a long man- 
tle of dark’ blue, called a rebozo. The little children 
had little shirts and petticoats and little rehozos, 
and pattered along with bare feet by the side of 
their barefooted mammas. And so, laughing and 
talking, and sometimes singing in a weird strain, 
they all swarmed along the broad highway to the 
village. The stream continued till long after the 
Jacksons and Bessie had taken their coffee, which 
they did betimes, for they were anxious to follow 
it to the market-place. 

There they were much amused and occupied in 
the preparations for the festival ; but they learned 
from the worthy cura, or priest of the parish 
church, that the most interesting ceremony would 
be that of Good Friday, in the churchyard. 

Accordingly, having passed the interval in seeing 
other sights of Amecameca, picturesque and strange 
to the New England girl, they found themselves on 


288 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


Friday morning on the steps of the church, waiting 
for something, they scarcely knew what, hut fully 
occupied by watching the crowds of Indians who 
came, like them, to see. The churchyard was a 
large enclosure of land, now run to waste, bor- 
dered by immense old trees that cast their shade 
pleasantly over the outer parts of it; for the sun 
even then, in April, beat down hot upon the open 
space. 

In one corner was erected a rude staging, and 
toward this the crowd tended. It was near one 
of the doors of the church ; and Bessie could see 
men bustling in and out of this door, carrying mys- 
terious things behind the staging ; while the crowd 
stood aloof, reverently waiting, without any of that 
impatience which Yankees would show. 

It rather added to the scene, for our strangers, 
that they knew not at all what to expect. After- 
wards the details of the performance were explained 
to them ; but at the time they had to unravel the 
mystery of it for themselves. It was a long time 
before anything important happened, and they all 
began to grow tired. Luckily, a boy came along 
with a basket of cakes, such as the Mexicans make 
in great variety, all good. They refreshed them- 
selves with these, and immediately felt good-na- 
tured and happy. 

Two hours more passed ; and meantime the 
churchyard had filled with close-set groups of In- 


JESUS CKUCIFIED. 


289 


diaus, gayly dressed, though blue prevailed, — the 
usual color for rehozos, for the Indian loves bright 
colors ; and his scrape, or blanket, and the woollen 
sash or band round his waist are red, purple, or yel- 
low. Many children were there, — small ones that 
could not or could scarcely stand, sitting in moth- 
ers’ laps, or held up in the arms of patient fathers, 
to overlook the heads of the people \ for the Mexi- 
can father is a model for devotion to his children. 

By this time it had dawned upon the Americans 
that something like a play was to be enacted. The 
stage was upon a platform over a small wooden 
structure about fifteen feet high, so that it was 
like looking up at a window in the second story of 
some house. There were concealed steps by which 
the performers could mount to this platform, but 
no curtain; so that there could be no set scene 
arranged, but one by one their heads appeared 
through a trap-door from below. 

First a few Eoman soldiers came up, and placed 
themselves on one side and the other. They had 
gilt helmets on, and purple skirts, with bare legs 
and buskins. Shields and spears were in their 
hands. Th'ese’ costumes were crude and of coarse 
material, but effective. Brown faces and bright 
eyes gleamed strangely from the false black curls 
these warriors had assumed with their helmets. 
But all was serious and grave ; nor did there come 
to the strangers looking on any sense of the ridicu- 
19 


290 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOKIES. 


lous in what was so earnest a representation in the 
minds both of those who gave it and of the spec- 
tators. Not a word was spoken upon the stage, 
nor was there much action of any kind ; the story 
told itself by the presence of the proper personages, 
who silently held their proper places. The scene 
was closely taken from the fifteenth chapter of 
Mark. Pilate was there, and the priests ; and after 
a silent expressive pause, which suggested the con- 
sultation of the scribes and elders, the Christ was 
brought up the hidden steps to the platform. Now, 
this was the strangest part of all. While the other 
characters were all real people, the Saviour was 
represented by a figure, a wooden image the size 
of life, which belongs to the church of Amecameca, 
and is greatly venerated by the Indians. It has 
been among them a long time, and they firmly be- 
lieve it to be of miraculous origin. Bessie had 
heard many wonderful things about it. It is sa- 
• credly preserved throughout the year, and on 
Good Friday it takes its part in this Passion Play, 
which has been performed year after year ever 
since the time of the conversion of the Indians. 

The figure is the size of life. It looked so real, 
standing with bowed head, clad in a purple robe, 
that at first they could not believe it was only an 
image. The face was white, — a contrast to the 
brown ones about it, — pale and wan ; and when 
the crown of thorns was placed upon its head, it 


JESUS CKUCIFIED. 


291 


took on a strangely human expression. Bessie felt 
a thrill of emotion and grief, such as she had never 
had before in reading the words : — 

“ And they clothed him with purple, and platted 
a crown of thorns and put it about his head, and 
began to salute him. Hail, King of the Jews ! and 
they smote him on the head with a reed . . . and 
when they had mocked him, they took off the purple 
from him, and put his own clothes on him, and led 
him out to crucify him.” 

For all this was done ; the figure, passive, motion- 
less, meekly standing, while the soldiers tore off the 
purple and put in its place a coarse brown garment. 

There was no hurry, no embarrassment, although 
the strange silence which hung over the scene might 
have caused it. The vast audience, reverent and mo- 
tionless, watched the grave acts of the soldiers as they 
took off the purple and put the brown garment over 
the head of the image. The Christ was then led away, 
disappearing down the hidden stairway ; and then 
a sort of sigh passed through the crowd. The Jack- 
sons thought the scene might be over, but they were 
mistaken. The Saviour was brought round to the 
front upon a raised platform borne upon the shoul- 
ders of strong men, and now became the prominent 
figure of a long procession, marching around the 
inner edge of the enclosed churchyard. Pontius 
Pilate came first, and the Eoman soldiers, some of 
them mounted on horseback ; then the platform 


292 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


bearing the Christ. A band of a few wind instru- 
ments marked the time, and the line was made up 
with various important individuals of the church 
and the town, and persons bearing banners. 

Again the figure of the Christ was most impres- 
sive, standing erect, with the head bowed, and bear- 
ing upon its shoulders a heavy cross. ’ At certain 
stations on the route tlie figure was made to fall, 
as if overcome with fatigue, until a man came upon 
the platform and supported it. This was one Si- 
mon, a Cyrenian,” compelled to bear the cross. The 
horsemen rode up to the Saviour from time to time, 
mocking him ; and thus the story was kept up, al- 
though the procession kept marching round and 
round the enclosure. 

What would have happened further, Bessie does 
not know ; for as they were beginning to lose 
their interest in the procession through fatigue, to 
remember that it was late, and to wonder how they 
should escape from the place, a violent thunder- 
shower, which no one had seen coming, burst upon 
the churchyard, pouring torrents and drenching sol- 
diers, image, and the holiday crowd. Every one 
fied for shelter into the church or out through the 
great gates to their booths in the market-place. 
The Jacksons and Bessie followed them as best 
they could, and were glad to reach their hotel. 

The next day they left Amecameca, and Bessie 
returned to her parents ; they were glad to receive 


JESUS CRUCIFIED. 


293 


her back again, and pleased to find her brightened 
and excited with her adventures. 

In the evening they sat in their little balcony 
overlooking the narrow Mexican street. The air 
was soft and mild, and sunset-tinted clouds floated 
over the roofs of the opposite houses. A light 
shawl protected Mrs. Armstrong from even this 
soft breeze ; she lay back in her long travelling- 
chair, with cushions behind her; and thus, while 
Bessie held her hand, she listened to the story of 
the wonderful serious pla^ at Amecarneca. They 
talked long about the scene itself, and of the faith 
of the simple Indians, who from generation to gen- 
eration preserve the tale as it has been told to them ; 
and then the mother dwelt upon the power of that 
Life which had so filled the world that years and 
years after it had seemed to end upon the cross 
men thought of it, and reverenced it, and crossed 
the seas and endured hardships to plant that cross ; 
so that here in distant America, nearly two thou-' 
sand years after, the very scene of his last trial is 
not only known, but acted over again, in a little 
obscure village in the shadow of the great 
volcanoes. 





F' . 
■ ’ 

.f 





Risen Indeed. 


“ T T OW is she ? ” said Flavius, as he pulled open 
the door of his little house. 

Bat the face of the child who met him answered 
his question without words. It was wet with tears, 
and her eyes were inflamed with her weeping. She 
was a girl of eleven years of age. She had been 
waiting to meet her father, as he came from his 
day’s work in the more crowded part of Rome. 

They pressed on together to the dark room where 
the girl’s mother was alone with her grief. Poor 
woman ! she started from her chair, to fling her 
arms round her husband’s neck, and they stood 
silent for a minute in their common sorrow. Then 
he led her to a sofa where they could sit together, 
and after a struggle she found words. 

'‘Yes, it is all over. For a little — after you 
went away, I thought — I tried to think she felt 
more easy. It seemed to me that her skin was a 
little more cool. Then she seemed tired, as if she 
wanted to sleep ; and I even went away from her, 
— my darling, — for fear I might worry her, — excite 
her, you know. I drew the curtains tight, and sat 


296 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


down on the other side of the room. But — I do 
not know how long ; an hour perhaps, perhaps 
more, — oh, I do not know! — she started in the 
bed, and I ran to her. She drew herself up ; she 
flung her arm round my neck. She seemed to see 
me; she spoke more plainly than she has spoken 
since she was sick. She turned to me and kissed 
me ; and her face was so sweet and happy. ‘ Dear 
mother, how I love you ! ’ she said, ‘ and how I love 
my dear father ! ’ And, Flavius, they were the last 
words she said. Her arm relaxed, she sank down 
on the pillow, and she is dead.” And the poor 
mother fell to sobbing again, and this time her 
husband was sobbing with her. 

There were the grapes he had brought home, 
hoping they might please her taste. There were the 
roses he had bought in the flower-garden, thinking 
they would seem sweet to his sick child, — and they 
seemed such vanity now. Both Flavius and his wife 
had been happy in their home. Neither of them 
had ever seen death before. And now* their pretty 
darling — the life of the house — was gone. 

There had been no doctor. Doctors in those days 
were not for people like them, who had little money 
to give. An old woman from the next door had 
guessed what were the right herbs to make decoc- 
tions of, and the poor mother had done as she was 
told. But here was fever, — fever in its worst form, 
— we call it Eoman fever to this day. It had done 


CHRIST RISEN FROM THE DEAD. 


297 


its worst, and the child was dead ; and brothers and 
sisters and father and mother could only creep into 
the room and look the last upon the face which 
still smiled with the dear child’s sweetest smile. 
And they knew that to-morrow, even that blessing 
would be gone. Yes,, and the next day it was gone. 

The poor father did not take his wife nor his 
children with him to the wretched lonely ceremo- 
nial, if so it may be called. Alone he bore the 
body of his dear child to the place assigned ; alone 
he stood by as it was burned to ashes ; and then two 
or three of the men who had arranged the funeral 
pile kindly and silently gathered the poor remnants 
and placed them in an urn, which they gave to the 
poor father. He carried this in his arms to one of 
the places where men of his class were expected to 
go, and the little urn was set by the side of hundreds 
of others in this which became a common tomb. 
He returned to his wife, and told her that all was 
over. 

It was three or four days after, when the poor 
mother, rousing herself to daily duty as she could, 
told him, on the morning of the first day of the week, 
that she would feel happier if he should take her to 
this “ columbarium ” where the ashes of their child 
were placed. And with her' he led along the daugh- 
ter and son, who had borne their part of the sorrow 
and rendered such dielp to their mother as they 
could in her care of their sister. Little was there 


298 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


indeed which they could do at the best, little which 
they could see. It was only to look on the place ; 
it was only to remember how lovely was the child ; 
it was only to tell to each other again the last words 
which she spoke, and then to return home. 

As they returned, still ea,rly in the morning, 
Flavius caught sight of two of his office friends, 
who were walking under a row of poplars outside 
the city. These men had been very kind to him 
in his grief, and, as they could, had taken a part of 
his office work that he might go to his home. They 
were all copyists together in a publishing-house, 
and just now their master was working them over 
time a little because he had a new order for fifty 
copies of the Odes of Horace, which he was pressing 
through. 

This man, to fill his orders, bought slaves in the 
market, choosing for this purpose men who could 
read and write well. Flavius, who was a German 
boy, taken prisoner by Germanicus in a fight on the 
Ehine, had been for many years a slave of a senator, 
from whom he took his name. In his master’s 
family he had learned to write a good hand ; he had 
been intrusted, indeed, with his -master’s accounts, 
and often with copying his letters. When his 
master died, the estate had been broken up and our 
friend sold at auction. 

His handwriting was so good that he brought a 
high price ; and now he was at the comparatively 


CHRIST RISEN FROM THE DEAD. 299 

easy work of writing eight hours a day to dictation 
of whatever book happened to be in demand. This 
book was just now the Odes of Horace. Many of 
these were well known to Flavius. Every morning 
he and nearly fifty other slaves met in the great 
workroom of the publishing-house ;• they sat at 
their desks together. A careful reader with a loud 
and clear voice read the Odes to them successively. 
They all wrote slowly and carefully, and in this 
way the copies were furnished for the readers. 

This particular publisher had a clever knack at 
binding and ornament, and this new edition of 
Horace was to be something a little out of the 
common way. The two friends whom Flavius now 
met sat near him in the workroom, and every day 
of the last week they had taken his work after the 
eighth hour so that he might be relieved and go 
home. They had thus stayed after hours, and had 
finished what he had left undone. 

Flavius, seeing them now, called them ; so that 
they waited for him and his little party. Then he 
said to his wife : “ I want you to know Mark and 
Simeon. It is they who have been so good to me, 
that I might have the evenings with you.” 

She saluted them gladly, and they expressed to 
her their sorrow and sympathy for her loss. For a 
moment all stood silent. 

Then Mark said, with some caution, “ I believe 
if you come with us you might see that even in 


300 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


sorrow there is something glad, and that through 
sorrow one comes to a higher life.” 

And Flavius and the poor sad mother and the 
two children assented, — gladly enough, indeed, hut 
in wonder. 

“ The children are large enough to keep secrets,” 
said Mark, with a smile, as he gave his hand to the 
boy. 

So they walked on, until they came to a rough 
road- way, which turned to the right from the liigh- 
road, and wound in rough ruts among broken stones 
here and there, to the quarries. Suddenly Mark 
stopped, and where an archway was thrown across, 
above a high wooden gate, he knocked three times 
upon the boards. A voice within said, “Welcome, 
brother ! do you come in peace ? ” and Mark an- 
swered, “ Peace be upon this gate.” The voice in- 
side said, “ The Lord saith, ‘ Thou shalt love thy 
neighbor.’ ” And Marcus answered, “And He saith, 
‘ It is more blessed to give than to receive.’ ” Then 
the voice said, “ Peace be with you ; ” and the gate 
opened. To the watchman Mark and Simeon said, 
“We are sureties for these friends;” and he said 
again, “ P-eace be with you.” He gave to Simeon 
a little roll of wax taper lighted ; and Simeon, 
guiding Flavius and his wife and followed by 
the others, led the way under the low roof of 
stone, perhaps two hundred feet from the outer 
light. 


CHRIST RISEN FROM THE DEAD. 


301 


Here met four or five passages in the underground 
quarry. It was a place where the little carts of the 
quarrymen had exchanged their loads, or rearranged 
them. It made quite a large room, — wholly seques- 
tered, as may be supposed. And here were gathered 
some forty or fifty men and women. A rough table 
was on one side, with a cup of wine upon it and 
two earthen dishes. Upon these dishes several of 
those who came in laid a biscuit or a slice of bread. 
After our party entered, tw^o or three more men and 
women came in. Each greeted each, as old friends ; 
and Flavius and his household were made known to 
them. Some sat on the ground or on broken bits 
of stone. Some children sat on their parents’ knees. 
There were a few minutes of silence, and then one 
of the children began to sing the hymn, — 

“ Shepherd of gentle sheep.” 

One and another voice took up the words, and they all 
sang together. All was still again, and then Marcus 
prayed aloud to the good God for his help and com- 
fort to each and all. And they all said, Amen. And 
Simeon broke the bread which had been brought 
together from different homes, and in a few words 
thanked God for it, and asked his blessing on it. 
“ As this broken bread has been strewn abroad in 
thy seed-corn upon the mountains and being 
gathered together become one, so let thy Church 
be gathered together from the ends of the earth 


302 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STOEIES. 


into tliy kingdom.” 1 They passed the cup from 
hand to liand to all hut Flavius and his family ; 
and they passed the bread in the same way, and all 
ate from it excepting them. Then each kissed 
Avhoever sat by him with a kiss of love. 

Then Simeon read from the Gospel of John the 
account of the resurrection. And Mark said : “ I 
have here what a brother at Ostium has lent me. 
It is the copy of a letter which the blessed apostle 
Paul wrote to the Church in Corinth. This brother 
is a sailor from that port, and he is in Ostium now.” 
And so Mark read the fifteenth chapter, as we call it, 
of Paul’s First Epistle. Our golden text was in it : 
“ Christ is risen from the dead, and become the first- 
fruits of them that slept.” 

Flavius and his poor stricken wife could not keep 
their eyes from his face as he read. When he put 
down the little book he had, he came to the wife 
and pressed her hand, and kissed Flavius with the 
kiss of love. 

"‘Do you tell me,” said she, “that your Jesus, 
your Christ, lives now.” 

“Indeed he does. He is th^ Life : he never dies.” 

“ And my darling ? ” 

“ Is God’s darling as surely as she is yours. God’s 
children do not die.” 

“ I said she slept. I told her father so.” 

1 This language is taken from the form in the “ Teaching 
of the Twelve Apostles,” recently discovered. 


CHKIST RISEN FROM THE DEAD. 


303 


“ You said truly, my child. And of those who 
sleep, our Lord and Master is for us the first-fruits.” 
And he read to her the Master’s words, “ She is not 
dead, but sleepeth.” 

There is in Eome to-day a little stone taken 
from the old burial-grounds, on which a Christian 
father had the words carved, She sleeps in Christ.” 
These words were placed over a child’s grave while 
the Apostle John still lived. 














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Mexico Again. 


Fernando Cortez came to Mexico, he 
^ ^ found the people pursuing a worship wdiich 
seemed to him detestable. They sacrificed their ene- 
mies to huge idols which they had made themselves ; 
and they had, moreover, no knowledge of Jesus 
Christ, of his life and teaching, or of his death upon 
the cross and his resurrection. Faith in these things 
Cortez firmly believed to be essential to all men ; 
and one of his strongest motives (for we have eveiy 
reason to believe it was sincere) in conquering the 
Mexicans was to bring them to a knowledge of the 
Christ. 

To achieve this, he began by taking away their 
old religion, throwing down their great images and 
destroying their temples; and everywhere he did 
this, he set up the true cross, and caused the peo- 
ple to be baptized as Christians. Whole cities full 
of Indians, as soon as their armies had surrendered 
to the conqueror, were thus of a sudden forcibly 
made Christians, scarcely knowing the meaning of 
the word. 

Cortez gave the region he thus conquered to the 
King of Spain, then Emperor Charles Y., whose 
20 


306 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


subject he was ; and so Mexico became dependent 
upon Spain, a country devoted to the Eoraan Cath- 
olic faith. Cortez remained to govern his conquest ; 
but he soon found that his new Christians were very 
ignorant of the belief they had accepted through 
compulsion, and he wrote to his sovereign, asking 
him to send missionaries to his new province to 
teach this new religion, to them so old. 

Accordingly the Emperor gave an order, and the 
Pope issued a bull; and about three years after 
the conquest, twelve holy men arrived in New 
Spain, as Mexico was then called, to undertake the 
conversion of the natives. Even before they had 
arrived, the knowledge of these many heathen wait- 
ing for a revelation of the true faith had been 
noised abroad, and three earlier missionaries, of 
their own accord, had come from Flanders to work 
for their salvation; but these twelve are the first 
authorized by Pope and monarch. They are called 
the “ Twelve Apostles of Mexico.” Their leader was 
Fray Martin of Valencia, and he bore from the 
Pope the title of Vicar of New Spain.” 

This good man was a true missionary. His home 
was Valencia, — the brightest, sunniest province of 
all Spain, which the Moors had made the most 
fertile. There, all the year long, flowers blossom 
and grain ripens : in the spring roses are sweet, and 
nightingales sing among them ; and in the autumn 
grapes hang upon the vine for him who will to 


MISSIONARY LESSON. 


307 


to pluck them. Broad meadows stretch out uuder 
the blue sky, the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada 
rise above them, and the Mediterranean Sea sparkles 
not far away. 

At that time Spain was one of the greatest king- 
doms of the world, proud and prosperous ; moreover, 
at any time, in prosperity or adversity, the Spaniard 
loves his country, and hates to leave it. 

But Fray Martin, walking the cloisters of his 
tranquil monastery, where the sun shone through 
its carved archways, and cast shadows of long 
trailing branches of sweet-smelling roses upon the 
pavement at his feet, heard of the distant land just 
conquered to the cross. He heard of thousands of 
men, snatched from a shocking superstition, who 
yet knew nothing of the Christ, and he said, ‘‘ I 
will go.” 

It was to an unknown country, and across a bitter 
ocean, which fifty years before no man had dared to 
venture on. Of the few voyages which had been 
made to that land, not many wanderers had re- 
turned to tell their adventures ; ships were small, 
and navigators were ignorant, so that the dangers 
of the sea were great ; yet Fray Martin took his 
staff in his hand, and said, " I will go.” 

All these early missionaries showed great judg- 
ment in their treatment of the simple natives they 
came to teach ; and by their moderation, example, 
^nd tact they succeeded in leading these ignorant 


308 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


minds to au acceptance of the religion they came to 
teach without any violent wrench from the habits 
of thinking the}^ inherited. 

The missionaries found that, after all, there were 
many good points in tlie superstitions of the Aztec 
faith, in spite of its bloody sacrifices ; while the 
natural disposition of the Mexican Indians was 
docile and gentle. All its better features they wisely 
worked upon ; for instance, a love of flowers, and the 
use of them for religious ceremonies, which had 
formed a part of the old superstition, they encour- 
aged in the rites of the new belief ; thus to this day, 
in Mexico, the shrine of the Holy Virgin, on certain 
days, is decorated with a profusion of flowers, which 
grow in Mexico with all the extravagance of Fray 
Martin’s own Valencia. 

And indeed in this respect he found no privation ; 
for the plateau of Mexico to which he came has a 
climate scarcely equalled by any other. There one 
may live all the year round in the open air with- 
out suffering; for there is no real winter, and the 
heat of summer is not oppressive, on account of 
the high altitude. 

Fray Martin took up the life of the Indians just 
as he found it ; for his plan of saving their souls was 
to begin by helping their bodies. He made himself 
their friend, and cured their ailments ; for he was 
wise in a knowledge of all diseases, and set himself 
to learn from them the properties of the many herbs 


MISSIONAKY LESSON. 


309 


and plants helpful to cure, which abound in Mexico. 
He taught them to improve upon the pottery they 
had for generations known how to make, and in the 
weaving of reeds and such things into baskets. 
Much astonished was the good father to find how 
skilful these Indians were in many simple arts 
which go to the comfort of life ; nor does any one 
yet know how these accomplishments came to the 
knowledge of these people. 

This holy man laid aside all worldly ease and 
lived among the Indians, sometimes here, some- 
times there, greatly beloved by every settlement 
of them in which he might find himself. 

There is a little hill called the Sacro Monte, or 
Sacred Mountain, not very far from the great vol- 
canoes, which is greatly venerated by the Mexican 
Indians. Perhaps in their old days of superstition, 
before the conquest, their gods were worshipped 
there; and so this may be the reason why the 
early fathers continued to call it sacred. It rises 
abruptly from the plain ; and from the summit 
there is a grand view of Popocatepetl and Iztacci- 
huatl, mountains rising seventeen thousand feet 
above the level of the sea, and covered with per- 
petual snow. There are now a chapel and a shrine 
upon the summit of the Sacro Monte, built about a 
natural cave which, in his day, was the favorite 
dwelling-place of the good Fray Martin. 

Here he used to teach the little Indian children 


310 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


who would climb the hill to find him. Their way 
was up a steep path under huge cypress-trees, even 
then full-grown, no doubt, for they are now so 
old that no man can tell their beginning. Their 
trunks are immense in girth, and tlieir spreading 
green branches sweep -down from a great height 
and touch the ground. So, sitting by the cave and 
looking out upon the broad solemn panorama, he 
used to tell the little Indian children about Jesus, 
who bade that little children should come to him, 
and who took them in his arms and blessed them ; 
that he lived many years ago to show all men how 
pure and good life can be, teaching men to love 
one another and bear one another’s burdens ; and 
that finally he died upon the cross, but died to 
live again, that men might know and believe in 
another life. He told them of the mother of 
Jesus, the sweet tender Virgin Mary, and so filled 
their affectionate hearts with this image that it 
became the object of their deepest love; “and so 
it remains to this day among all the Mexican 
Indians. 

Thus these gentle people came to an abiding 
faith in God and Christ and the Virgin Mary, 
and to lead peaceable lives in harmony with each 
other and with all men. 

But not only was Fray Martin beloved of the 
Indians and of their little children, but also, it is 
said the little animals grew so fond of him that 


MISSIONARY LESSON. 


311 


they came in great numbers to live near him upon 
the Sacro Monte ; and as for birds, great flocks of 
them of all sorts came and sang to him from the 
branches of the trees. But after his death the lit- 
tle animals and tlie birds went away from there 
and came no more. 

For after a long and faithful life among his In- 
dians, his little animals, and his birds, the good 
Fray Martin sickened and died, and was buried 
in a little town not very far from this sacred 
mountain. It is said that afterwards the Indians 
secretly removed his body and carried it up to his 
cave and buried it there, that his presence might 
still be among them, and that his bones might 
be in the place where he had so loved to dwell. 
This was the life of Fray Martin, of Valencia, a 
true missionary, who gave* himself wholly to trans- 
mit the faith he believed to the Mexican Indians. 

One of the chief teachings of Fray Martin, and 
indeed of the other early “Apostles to the Mex- 
icans,” was the love of children, such as our Sa- 
viour taught it ; and their efforts bore fruits, for to 
this day the Indians are extremely kind to their 
children, and in their simple way do a great deal 
for them. Whatever an Indian knows how to 
make for the use of his family, be it pottery for 
the kitchen, wooden carving, or straw work, — in 
which their skill is remarkable, — he always makes 


312 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 


little toy objects iu imitation ot‘ the large useful 
ones, these little ones useful for nothing but to 
please and amuse the little children. Thus, in a 
market on a feast-day, where in the open square all 
sorts of wares are set out for sale, spread upon the 
ground, or in stalls under the shelter of huge rude 
umbrellas of matting, whatever is displayed is re- 
produced in little, in the way of toys for the chil- 
dren, often so neatly made, such clever imitations 
of the larger, that the little things are very pretty, 
and moreover good examples of Indian skill. 

A year or two ago, some children in New York 
who wanted, in their way, to be missionaries and 
to help to lift the burden of suffering from the 
world, planned a fair in aid of the Fresh Air 
Fund, as children often do. They met together 
and worked and worked, collecting pretty things 
to sell; and when they had enough, and all was 
in readiness, they summoned all their friends to 
come and do their part in buying the result of 
tlieir industry. There were pincushions and pic- 
tures, slippers and dolls, and all the trifles that 
spring up like mushrooms as soon as a fair is 
mentioned. All the friends came, the rooms were 
filled, and the sales were profitable. Just on that 
very day came a parcel from the City of Mexico by 
the Adams Express. It contained a little collection 
of Mexican toys made by the Mexican Indians to 
amuse their children. There were little jugs of 


MISSIONARY LESSON. 


313 


l^rowii pottery no bigger than chocolate-drops, ami 
so many that they looked like a handful of these ; 
there were tiny wooden chairs with woven seats 
like the larger ones in use in Mexico ; there were 
odd little figures no more than an inch high, dressed 
in scraps of wool and print to represent the cos- 
tume of the Indian^ ; whistles in the shape of a 
bird ; straw rattles made like roosters ; tiny baskets 
woven of bright colors; small bulls of real hide 
with the hair on, stuck with darts as if fresh from 
the arena; a doll dressed to look like a Yankee 
from the Indian point of view, and another as a 
Spanish nun. 

These novelties took the fair by surprise, and 
were sold immediately at prices far beyond their 
worth, for they are absurdly cheap in the Mexican 
market-place. Every one wanted to buy something 
made by the Mexican Indians ; so that quite a 
large sum was realized from these toys, in addi- 
tion to the other proceeds of the fair. 

And thus the little children of New York who 
eujoyed the next summer a happy day or several 
happy days in the country from this Fresh Air 
Fund, which was increased by the proceeds of the 
fair, were remotely indebted, though not one of 
them could dream of such a thing, to the children 
of the Mexican Indians, living far away in adobe 
huts below the great snow-capped volcanoes. And 
the mission of the little Indian children whose 


314 SUNDAY-SCHOOL STORIES. 

toys were sent to swell the fund to give pleasure 
to the poor little shut-up children of a great city, 
was remotely the echo of the loving work of good 
Fray Martin, who left his bright Valencia three 
hundred years ago to bring to a new land the 
tidings of his faith. 


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